the fire in my heart (will burn me to the ground)
by Child-OTKW
Summary: When Shiro received his draft notice, he felt like his world was crumbling. Forced to leave behind his best friend and join the army, his life was irreversibly changed when he underwent an experimental procedure to create the perfect soldier. Now as Captain America, with Keith beside him, he found himself neck-deep in a war orchestrated by a shadow organisation known only as GALRA.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, haha, this'll be fun I guess. I know, I know, there are two other massive stories I should be working on right now - but this has honestly been on my computer since November and I need it to do something other than sit there gathering dust. Otherwise I'd probably never post the bugger.**

 **So, if you couldn't tell from the summary, this is an MCU/Comics inspired story. I saw a few pictures floating around the Voltron fandom wayback when that had the Paladins as the Avengers and thought it was adorable. And in all the depictions I've seen of the whole team, Shiro is generally Cap - which, ya know, kinda makes sense. And I've seen Keith drawn as the 'Black Widow' of the team, and while I fully agree Keith is a kickass BW, my brain booked a ticket on the angst train and made a connection that birthed this.**

 **So, obvs in Marvel, Steve and Bucky are damn close, and have the nasty tendency to be self-sacrificing idiots (almost as bad as 616 Tony and Steve). And I was like "huh, Keith and Shiro are bit like that."**

 **So my brain took that idea and made this. I don't know why, I just really liked the idea of Shiro being Captain America and Keith being his rebellious, snarky sidekick (a.k.a. Bucky Barnes). And I know, some of you will probably be like "But Shiro has the metal arm and the traumatic year of torture and his head is always being messed up" etc. etc.**

 **But if you bear with me. I assure you, it will all (hopefully!) work out by the end.**

 **There will be some major differences between the two plots (for reasons!) in particular regarding how things progress and the background of the characters, but I hope it's still interesting enough for you guys.**

 **This story is a gift to arahir - if you don't know her yet, I highly recommend reading her works on AO3. She's amazing!  
**

 **WARNING: There is heavy racist themes in this story, as well as issues of homophobia. This is to stay true to the time period that the story is based in.**

* * *

The frigid air pierced through his thin clothes, chilling him to the bone. The sweat that he'd built up at the factory had long turned cold, now making his movements feel sluggish and his hands clammy.

He should get inside, before he came down with something. The last problem they needed was paying off medical bills on top of everything else.

But.

He couldn't.

The key was in his hand, the door directly in front of him. It was easy. He'd done it a thousand times before. The only thing standing between him and the marginally warmer apartment was the _Goddamn lock._

The lock – and the small, innocuous slip of paper in his pocket that seemed to burn intensely whenever his thoughts strayed to it.

Shiro swallowed past the lump in his throat. His fingers writhed around the key as he thought over what he was going to say.

Of how he could possibly explain this whole mess.

The shock had worn off hours ago for him, maybe because on some level, he'd always suspected that this moment would come. Ever since that bleak, horrible day in December he'd felt the slowly tightening noose around his neck, digging into his skin with aching tenderness. And as more and more men were dragged off to fight, Shiro had been counting down the days in the back of his mind.

He'd known it was coming. But now that it was happening, now that the realisation of what awaited him was finally settling in his head, he found it difficult to breathe.

And _Keith._

Christ, how was he even supposed to tell his best friend that Shiro was going to –

There was a click, and the door swung open with a butchered creak, so abrupt that Shiro jumped guiltily at being caught dawdling on the rickety staircase like a miserable dog.

Keith stared up at him from the other side, one eyebrow arched just enough to convey how unimpressed he was. There was a smudge of grease on his cheek, and he was still in his uniform. He'd only just gotten home, then.

"Hey." Shiro greeted softly, hoping there was nothing on his face or in his voice that tipped Keith off.

His friend's frown deepened, narrowed eyes scanning him swiftly from the toes of his muddy boots to the tips of his filthy hair.

And for a moment Shiro wondered if Keith already knew despite him not even saying anything. That maybe he could see the paper through the fabric of Shiro's pants and recognise it for the threat it was. That any moment Shiro was going to see those walls rise in his eyes and shut him out to protect that fragile, perfect heart.

Or maybe Keith only knew _something_ was wrong, not _what._

Honestly, Shiro wouldn't even be surprised if he did though.

Keith had always been able to know what Shiro was thinking, from their very first meeting years ago. It was remarkable how gifted Keith actually was at reading complete strangers. One glance and he had them pinned and sorted into his little boxes, and he was rarely ever wrong.

More often than not, it was Keith's quick judgement that got them out of danger, identifying who they could trust and who they couldn't. Shiro had lost count of how many times Keith had saved them so much trouble simply by following his instincts.

And this innate skill only grew sharper the longer Keith knew someone – which sadly, at this point, was only Shiro.

There was only one thing he had managed to keep hidden away from Keith's sharp eyes, and it was the one thing Shiro longed to share with him the most.

But he never would. Because Keith didn't need Shiro's _inclinations_ affecting his life.

"You're late."

Shiro blinked, his thoughts slipping away as he looked at Keith. The relief he felt over the other not knowing barely had time to register, because the glint in those dark eyes told him Keith was already suspicious.

He forced out a short laugh, praying it sounded halfway to normal. "Yeah, sorry about that. I got caught up at the factory." He grinned sheepishly, and Keith's shoulders loosened the tiniest amount. His face cleared, the fierce pull of his eyebrows melting into something exasperatedly fond.

"Get in here, you idiot," Keith ordered with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes. He turned and moved further inside, leaving the door wide open.

Shiro happily complied, eager to get out of the chill and eat something.

He slipped off his work coat with a groan and kicked the door shut with enough force to wedge it into place. He hung his coat up on one of the flimsy hooks that unevenly lined the space of the entry hall - if a one metre stretch of wall could be counted as such.

"How was work?" He asked as he leaned his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a minute to just listen to Keith as he puttered around.

"Alright. I finally figured out what was wrong with the DeSoto."

"Oh yeah?"

He smiled when he heard Keith snort abrasively. "Some people's stupidity isn't even worth mentioning. Trust me."

Shiro chuckled at the scornful tone before straightening and cracking his neck. "I'll take your word for it."

"What about you, the factory still good?" Keith's voice sounded from down the hall now, muffled in a way that told Shiro he was in the kitchen. He started to head that way, dutifully ignoring how heavy his pocket felt with each step.

"It was fine. Nothing much happened."

The slight rustling sounds stopped, and Shiro ducked his head with a grimace. Keith must have heard the slight strain in his voice.

While normally the knowledge that Keith was paying such close attention to him might have set his heart singing, right now it only made the pit in his stomach gape wider.

Couldn't he have one last ordinary day? Couldn't he pretend for one more night that everything in their lives was blissfully simple?

Everything would change the second he told Keith, and Shiro hated it. He hated the very idea of upsetting the careful balance they had painstakingly built.

Everything was going to be _ruined._

The only thing that soothed the frantic energy bubbling in him was that Keith was still eighteen. He had another year at most, so long as the fighting didn't get so bad that they started going for younger recruits.

Keith would be safe. Shiro held onto that fact viciously.

But even that was a cold comfort.

Because it did nothing to change the fact that in less than a month Shiro would be _gone,_ and Keith would have to fend for himself in a world that was already filled with mistrust and violence. A world that took one look at them and sneered.

It was already hard enough now making ends meet. Without him here to carry some of the weight…

They'd have to sell the apartment, their home, and get Keith something more affordable on a one-person salary. Or else they'd have to find him a place with someone else; which due to the past month would be a herculean task.

The idea of Keith living with a stranger, someone who had no idea how to talk with him or make him smile, had Shiro torn between laughing hysterically and gritting his teeth.

But it was better than the alternative, which was the streets. And while Shiro was sure Keith could take care of himself if that ever happened, a part of him wailed at the thought of his best friend falling to that level.

"Shiro?"

He bit his lip and steeled himself. The longer he took to do this, the more time they wasted - time they could be using to help Keith and prepare him for when Shiro left.

"Keith. Can you come here a sec? There's something we need to talk about."

He could taste the suspicion rising in Keith when he spoke, "What's wrong?"

Shiro heard the clatter of pans being put down, and the soft sound of Keith padding closer. He closed his eyes again, pulled the little slip from his pocket, and gripped it limply in both of his worn hands - held out like a poisoned offering.

It hurt. Because he heard the exact moment Keith realised what he had.

The other's breath _choked._

"Keith -"

"No."

"Keith, just-"

" _No."_

Shiro wanted to cry. He knew - God did he know - what this meant to his friend.

He remembered how terrible Keith's life had been those months after his father had been drafted - there one day, gone the next, and after the attack on Pearl Harbour, a simple form turning up with the words _"Deeply regret to inform you…"_ cutting like a knife - and now Shiro was following the same path.

"I -"

Keith turned away from him, more like an aborted twist, and Shiro felt something in his chest give way at the tiny movement.

"Keith. Keith, stop. Just -" Having had enough, he closed the distance between them with two determined strides. The draft notice he left to flutter to the uneven wooden floor. His hands found their place on the younger man's shoulders and dug in.

"I'm going to be fine." The assurance fell from his lips without conscious thought. He just wanted to get that expression off Keith's face. But the second he said it Shiro knew he'd only made things worse.

Keith's arms snapped up in between his and out, cruelly tearing himself free from Shiro's hold. "Don't." He spat, voice trembling and rough. _"Don't you dare."_

"I'm sorry." Shiro rushed to say, hands hanging between them uselessly. "I'm so sorry, Keith. Please." He didn't know what he was asking for - forgiveness? Compassion, maybe? Sympathy? - but he was desperate for it.

Keith's eyes, so dark and blue they looked like gems, latched onto him with an urgency Shiro had never seen before. It was like he was trying to commit everything to memory.

Like he was carving, _branding_ Shiro's face onto the back of his mind. Like this would be the last time they ever saw each other, and he couldn't bear the thought of forgetting anything.

"Keith…"

His friend took a shuddering breath, then the fire in him spluttered and died. Keith approached him, cautious and uncertain in a way he had not been with Shiro since the beginning. His arms wrapped around him and squeezed.

Shiro instantly sagged at the touch, his own hands coming up and crushing the other to his chest. A litany of apologies burst out of him suddenly, tripping over each other until they were incomprehensible.

Through it all, Keith clung to him, fingers burrowing into his back.

Minutes went by and Shiro finally fell silent. His body unravelled and he let himself greedily enjoy the sensation of Keith pressed up against him. He soaked up the warmth emitting from the shorter man like a flower did sunlight.

Keith had always been like that to him. Ever since the younger had tackled a boy who'd been bullying Shiro, years ago in some dirty alley. He had come from nowhere, bright and forceful like the sun, and Shiro had been captivated.

Keith. He was impossible to ignore or miss. And you either burned yourself on his flames or flourished under his gentle attention.

Shiro's greatest fear had always been losing this - his uncensored access to Keith. To not be able to see him, talk to him, to laugh and smile and just _exist_ near him.

And now it was coming to pass.

"What are we going to do?" Keith's quiet inquiry broke through his thoughts, and his arms resisted for the briefest of moments when Shiro went to pull them apart.

"We're going to do what we always do. We're going to survive."

Keith looked down and away, and Shiro could see the struggle so plainly displayed on his face. He wanted nothing more than to smooth out the slight furrow between the other's brows. To rub his thumb against the firm press of Keith's lips until they were no longer a thin white line.

"Hey," he whispered, but it was enough to draw Keith's eyes back to him. He smiled. "We'll figure this out. You're going to be just fine."

Keith didn't even attempt to hide what he thought of that. The look on his face was hard and accusing.

 _It's not me I'm worried about._

 **OoO**

He was right. Everything changed after that day.

And Shiro did hate it.

To an outsider, it would look like nothing was different. But it was. It _was._

Keith went about his days as he'd done before, following the same routine he'd had since early December. He went to work, came home covered in grease and oil, and cooked dinner if Shiro was still out.

He told him about his day at the shop, complained about idiotic customers that didn't know the front end of their car from the back, and he never failed to ask after Shiro.

But there was a wariness to his movements that hadn't been there before. He was more withdrawn - sullen or distant or melancholy depending on the hour.

It was eerily similar to how he'd acted weeks after his father had died.

And Shiro could only watch with a clenched jaw as his friend - oldest, closest, best, but never anything more than that - pulled away from him. Like dragging this out would somehow make what Keith was doing less obvious, or make the ache easier to bear.

Where things had been - not perfect, but good before, now they were strained and raw, and Shiro didn't know how to stop what was hurting them.

This wasn't something he could protect Keith from, and a small spark of bitterness in the back of his mind liked to remind him that it'd always been _Shiro_ who needed Keith more than the other needed him. It'd always been _Shiro_ following Keith around, helplessly, happily pulled along in the other's gravity.

Shiro wasn't essential to Keith's world. He wasn't _required_ for Keith to lead a good life.

Whereas Shiro felt like he couldn't breathe without Keith by his side.

It's been a horrible day when he had realised just how little Keith needed him.

He wanted nothing more than to address this rift between them, but whenever he tried the words stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him. And Keith, he got this _look_ in his eyes whenever anything regarding the war was brought up. Something angry. Dark and ferocious.

 _Contemplative._

So instead of pushing, instead of facing this, Shiro turned his focus onto other things - things he could, at least, fix.

He looked at their money, and places Keith could live while Shiro was away. He looked at prices and odd-jobs around the area that Keith could pick up for extra pay. He looked at anything that might prove useful in keeping Keith afloat.

While he was doing that Shiro also started changing their budget to factor in his diminished salary. Since military wage weren't ideal, Keith would have to be careful with what little he made. Even though, as far as Shiro was concerned, most of what he made would be given straight to Keith anyway.

Every small bit could mean the difference between Keith making rent or being cast out onto the streets.

His time that wasn't solely dedicated to ensuring that Keith would be fine without him was split between picking up as many shifts at the factory as he could - trying to squeeze every last opportunity for money - and preparing to be sent to Camp McCoy for his training.

More often than not he returned home exhausted and stretched thin, shoulders drooping and eyes unable to stay open. Most days he barely had time to change clothes before he was collapsing in his bed and succumbing to the sweet call of sleep.

It was worth it though. To keep Keith safe. He believed that with all his might.

The weeks flew by, melding together until Shiro had to hang a calendar above his bed to cross the days off.

He hated how tired he was lately, and knew it'd likely be a long time until he was able to get a good night's sleep again.

He hated how the shifty side-glances he received were growing more and more prominent, even from neighbours and friends that had known him for years.

He hated that he'd been drafted at all.

But mostly he hated how little time he had to spend with Keith.

That, more than anything, made him want to scream.

 **OoO**

The day he was set to leave for Camp McCoy came too swiftly.

It was a cold morning, and everyone was bundled in their warmest clothes to try and combat the chill.

The area was stuffed full of people. All of them saying goodbye to their families and friends. For some of them, Shiro knew it might well be the last time they saw their loved ones.

He cast his eyes around.

Whole families surrounded him.

There were teary-faced mothers and weary looking fathers. There were stricken wives and unknowing children. Siblings embracing siblings.

All of them gathered in their little corners of the world.

To his left, Keith shifted uncomfortably.

The slight pang in Shiro's chest evaporated. His dim thoughts of his own parents - dead, but so loving and kind - were washed away.

He might not have a big family here to see him off, but he had Keith. And for so long Keith'd been more than enough.

Shiro dropped his bag between his boots, tilting his head to grin down at his friend in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "You'll be alright while I'm gone, right?" He asked, hesitant and soft. Things were still odd between them, since he had made hardly any progress mending their friendship.

And now they were out of time.

Keith mustered the strength to give him a half-smile, though the effort almost seemed to pain him. "I'll survive."

His eyes swept behind Shiro to the number of other little clusters of people. Determination settled in Keith's expression. "I'll see you soon. Stay safe, okay?"

Shiro nodded, "I'll try my best." He said, and that was all he could give Keith no matter how he wished otherwise. But he couldn't risk saying anything else, because Keith _remembered_ promises and Shiro'd never want to hurt him like that if he failed to keep his word.

He wasn't naive enough to make such promises, and Keith wasn't naive enough to ask.

Keith swallowed thickly, his head dipping in understanding. "Good luck, Takashi."

Shiro laughed, the stone lodged in his throat making the noise wobble tellingly. It'd been so long since anyone had called him by his proper name. The sound of it on Keith's lips always had his heart flipping. "Thanks. Stay out of trouble."

Keith snorted - because they both knew how trouble tended to find Keith no matter what he did - and the knot in Shiro's stomach unwound a little at the easy flow between them returning. "I'll try my best." He echoed, then held out his hand.

Shiro clasped it, and because this could be the last time they saw each other, he reeled Keith in and hugged him tightly.

His eyes prickled.

"I'll miss you." He told him, low and harsh and adamant. Because Keith needed to know without a shadow of a doubt that Shiro cared about him _so much._

Even if he couldn't say the actual words.

Maybe one day…

But not today. For now, Shiro let them sink back down to that private section of his heart.

Keith's shoulders shook lightly as he nodded stiffly into Shiro's throat. "I'll miss you too. Make me proud."

They separated, and Shiro's hand ruffled Keith's hair one more time before he stooped to pick up his bag and headed towards the bus.

Each step away from Keith felt like a punch to the gut.

He chose a window seat, directly across from where Keith was standing alone, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket and an old, discoloured scarf now wrapped more around his lower face than his neck.

Shiro placed his hand on the window, ignoring how freezing the glass was to touch.

One of Keith's slim, gloved hands rose in response and waved. Even from this distance Shiro could make out the way the other's eyes crinkled with that familiar smirk.

Regardless of what happened, Shiro prayed that they would get the chance to see each other again.

 **OoO**

Basic was a special kind of hell.

They were hustled off the bus before it'd even come to a stop and immediately put through another round of torturous bodily inspections that left his skin itching, and reinforced his appreciation for even the smallest scrap of clothing.

The phantom weight of the doctor's eyes still made him queasy.

But compared to what came after, Shiro would happily go back.

Their heads were shaved. Their belongings were confiscated. They were stripped of everything, with even their names being replaced with numbers.

It was demoralising and humiliating, watching as anything that made them who they were was stolen.

The other soldiers - ones who'd been in training for longer, some who'd already seen and experienced war - were cruel and seemed to take great pleasure in tormenting them whenever the opportunity arose.

Even Shiro, who had, by necessity, developed a thick skin over the years felt his confidence being chipped down.

It was like they couldn't even breathe without being torn to shreds.

His first night there was spent in a daze of half-awareness, half-paranoia, where Shiro was too tense to sleep.

The bed was lumpy, the sounds and smells were all foreign, and the unease roiling inside him made it impossible to close his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.

Shiro ended up burying his head under his pillow to tune out the whimpers and soft sobs he could hear coming from some of the others.

It didn't get better the next day.

They were woken before five to the harsh bellow of the drill instructor, a curt, no-nonsense man called Hendrick, who quickly destroyed whatever fleeting remnants of self-worth they still had.

The sun hadn't even crested the trees when they scurried to get ready in their exercise clothes, shovelled breakfast down their throats, and were being forced out into the winter's crisp morning air and taken on a ten-mile hike.

It was this hike that set the precedent for Shiro's entire time at training.

The ground was uneven and rocky and took all measures of concentration to navigate without falling. Some sections of the trek were so steep that the lot of them were crawling on their hands and knees more than they were running.

And through it all, Hendrick jogged alongside them, chant booming from his mouth, eyes hunting for the slightest sign of weakness and pouncing on it with brutal efficiency.

Shiro's blood was on fire. Each step had his legs screeching in pain and his lungs seizing. It was torture.

The entire run was only interrupted by the occasional sound of someone heaving - of their breakfast and bile splatting on the ground - or of Hendrick's voice cracking like a whip at whichever unfortunate soul caught his attention.

By the time they'd stumbled back into camp Shiro's body was trembling from the cold and the freezing sweat and the pain in his muscles.

With barely any time to recover, they were put to work on the obstacle courses where mud and rope burns became their new best friends.

By the end of dinner, Shiro - with his brown smudged skin and red-rimmed eyes - could do nothing more than sink into his bed with a groan. His body ached, deep and throbbing like he'd never experienced before.

 **OoO**

That night as he lay awake, listening to the noises around him once again, he was hit with the overwhelming desire to see Keith.

His eyes stung as he squeezed them shut, forcing the tears back.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of their small apartment and Keith's smile.

In the days that followed he learned about weapons. How to shoot and maintain his equipment.

He learned basic first-aid and engineering, as well as strategy and mission coordination.

He learned how to take orders, and how to shut his mouth and swallow his opinions.

Anything and everything they taught him he absorbed like a sponge. Because out there, out on the fronts, these things could just be what end up saving his life.

For a high school dropout, the work was surprisingly easy, and Shiro was viciously proud at the fact that he wasn't stupid just because he'd failed to remain in school.

He had a knack for almost everything they put in front of him, and what he didn't instinctively get, he was quickly taught.

 **OoO**

He always, always dreamed of Keith.

 **OoO**

But as time began to blur together, even the tiny flame in him started to wane. In the wake of his instructors' training Shiro was drained, mentally and physically. By the end of the first week, he just wanted to go home.

It wasn't just the training though.

Hardly anyone spoke to him, and those that did never seemed interested in having him around for longer than a few minutes. And normally he'd be fine with that. Shiro had never been particularly social before all of this, and the attitudes of some of the other men made him glad for the distance between them.

On occasion though, when the night was still and the quiet devastating, Shiro wished that he had someone he could talk to. Someone to turn to and share a joke with. Someone like Keith, whose silent presence was the most comforting force Shiro had ever encountered.

Almost all of his fellow privates had fallen into unsteady friendships at this point, and during their limited downtime, Shiro often overheard their chats.

He learned a lot by simply sitting there and listening to the hushed stories and whispered recollections of another life. It made the pinprick of longing in him swell each time.

No one ever asked him where he came from, or who he had waiting for him at home.

By the end of the second week, Shiro had settled into a strange sort of beaten acceptance that this was his life now.

He threw himself into his training, if only to ignore the loneliness that was creeping in on him. Being surrounded by people, yet being so utterly isolated was doing something to his head. The physical activities, while exhausting, were the only time Shiro didn't have to _think._

He wasn't happy. He could never be happy in such a bleak place. But he was content enough to get through the days.

The instructors seemed pleased with him at the very least; their tendency to berate transforming into begrudging praise once in a while as he conquered task after task. The shift in their attitudes was gradual but there, and Shiro, to his own surprise, found himself excelling more and more as the days dragged on.

That should have been his first warning, but for some reason the bullying still took him by surprise.

 **OoO**

It was nothing more than mutterings to begin with, coupled with the rare snide remark or heated glare, but Shiro was so used to that reception that he continued without letting it bother him. Keith and he had spent months suffering under the change in the country's perceptions towards people like them.

So, like Keith always urged but never practised, Shiro shrugged it off.

He should have known that would only make the situation fester.

Shiro was well aware that he was one of the few Japanese-Americans in the camp. He'd acknowledged that without really registering what it meant. But as those around him kept needling - hoping for a reaction he didn't want to give - it became uncomfortably clear.

The attack on Pearl Harbour had shredded whatever neutrality America had towards anyone remotely Japanese. Since that horrible day, slurs and suspicion had dogged his every step.

And it wasn't like Shiro didn't understand the sentiment because he felt that rage too. So many people had been killed during the assault. So many of his countrymen and women had perished. _Keith's father_ had died there.

But apparently, what no one seemed to realise was that _he was American too._ They took one look at his eyes, at his face and his name, and labelled him an outsider.

Even here, in a place where they were being taught to die for the same cause, that hatred still lingered like an unpleasant smell. The offhanded comments from the instructors only added more fuel to the metaphorical fire.

Shiro gnashed his teeth and powered on through, knowing with a sense of dread that soon something would have to give.

 **OoO**

"Watch it, _Jap."_ Saunders snarled when they bumped into each other on the field, waiting for Hendrick to arrive and begin the day's routine.

Shiro jerked in response, the word was that sharp and feral.

Three weeks ago he might have apologised on reflex for running into him. Three weeks ago he might have tried to placate the other man. Three weeks ago he would have backed away before it escalated.

However, time under Hendrick's tender mercies had worn away at his tolerant outlook on people like this.

Now - tired and angry and with fire in his bones - Shiro merely straightened, using his height to his advantage and pinning Saunders with a glare. "What did you just call me?" He asked, dangerously calm.

The group around them quietened, anticipation weaving through the air so thick he could almost taste it on his tongue. This was the first time Shiro had ever engaged one of them like this, and like the exhausted, hot-blooded men they were, they wanted to watch the fallout.

Shiro ignored them, keeping his focus on the man in front of him.

Saunders was one of his more persistent tormentors, one who never failed to seize the chance to say something cruel.

Normally Shiro could brush off the tactless insults the man hurled his way; but today marked the third week he had gone without seeing or hearing from Keith and he was _done._

Saunders tossed his shoulder back and bared his teeth. "You heard me."

Shiro's fists curled, even though his tone never faltered from painfully polite. "I was born and raised in New York." He told him plainly, voice elevated slightly so that there was no way any of them could have misheard.

"You think that matters?" Saunders stepped into his space, cheeks flushed with rage. "As far as I'm concerned you're all the same. A Jap is a Jap. You come into _our_ country, act like you own everything, and then you _attack_ like the fucking cowards you are."

Shiro's mind went smooth, and his fingers shook from how tightly he was clenching them.

It was -

God, he'd heard this all before. In some form or another. It'd been spat in his face more times than he liked to admit. _Enemy. Traitor. Fucking_ Jap.

But it'd never made him this _mad_ before.

He could feel it, under his skin, writhing and snarling. It was terrifying, how electrified he felt.

His nails broke through the skin of his palms, pooling blood under his fingernails.

Isaacs, one of Saunders' friends, tugged on the other man's arm. His eyes were focussed on Shiro's hands apprehensively. "Lay off it man, Hendrick's coming."

There was a pause, and Shiro readied himself because Saunders honestly looked seconds away from throwing a punch.

 _Do it._ The thing in Shiro's chest sneered. _Do it. I dare you, you fucking bastard. Hit me._

But Saunders backed away with only a dirty look.

Shiro slowly let out the breath he'd been holding, and he looked past the disappointed faces around him to see that Hendrick was indeed marching towards them, with a man on either side of him.

Shiro unclenched his fists, his fingers still shaking as his nails were peeled away from the cuts they had made. There was less blood then he'd thought, but the sight of it on his hands still left Shiro paralysed.

He'd actually _hurt himself_ to hold his temper back.

He'd never had to do that before. He'd never even had a _temper_ before.

Shiro clenched his eyes shut, dropping his hands to his sides. He took his anger, neatly boxed it away in some distant part of his mind and stood at attention with everyone else.

"Alright, Privates," Hendrick called, instantly telling Shiro that whoever these two newcomers were, they must be important. Hendrick hardly ever referred to them by rank, tending to favour a number of creative nicknames for them as a collective. If he was at least attempting professionalism then these two had to be high ranking. "We've got some visitors today. Look alive!"

The order had them snapping straight again.

Hendrick's eyes roamed over them critically, "This here is Colonel Iverson, and Doctor Trayling. For reasons beyond my comprehension they seem to think you lot will amount to something." Shiro valiantly tried to hide his surprise.

Colonel Iverson was a legend throughout the camp, and Shiro had heard that he was directly in charge of a specialised branch of the army.

 _What is he doing here?_

"I expect you all to show the proper level of respect and courtesy that they deserve. Anyone failing to do so will enjoy completing our usual hike. Twice." With that threat, Hendrick stepped aside with a short nod. "Colonel."

Iverson took his place in front of them.

He was a tall man, broad and powerful in his arms and shoulders, and held himself with the utmost confidence of a man well aware of his position and the knowledge that he'd earned every stripe on his uniform.

The colonel looked over them, his expression made from ice. Shiro stared ahead blankly when those eyes rolled over him, his jaw wound tight and spine locked.

"Good day soldiers. At east."

As one, they relaxed their stances, feet apart and hands linked behind their backs.

"As I'm sure some of you are aware, I am the head of an elite subdivision in our fair army. One that, shall we say, specialises in unique fighting tactics." Iverson prowled up and down the formation with sharp, controlled steps.

"It is to our great fortune that a new method of warfare has been approved by General Patton and President Roosevelt. And it is this new method that brings myself and Doctor Trayling here today."

Shiro followed Iverson with his eyes, intrigued.

"For the past weeks you have undergone a series of challenges, ones that will help you to prepare for the war ahead." He turned about and stalked back the other way. "For the next two weeks, you will be under intense observation by a number of personnel, who will be recording your performances and scores, and evaluating you. Those that show exceptional skill will be given the chance to partake in this illustrious project and hopefully turn the tide of this war."

Iverson came to a stop near the middle, gazing out at the again.

"I am looking for the best, gentlemen, and only the best. If you want to prove yourselves, if you want to fight for your country, for your families, now is the time to step up." The colonel's eyes briefly darted over to his companion.

The thin, bespectacled man blinked and his fingers rubbed the side of his nose; but other than a faint nod he didn't acknowledge Iverson further.

The colonel's attention swung back to them. "First Lieutenant Hendrick, I'll leave them in your capable hands."

Iverson and his silent partner - this Doctor Trayling - briskly strode away after they saluted, their heads bent together and mouths moving rapidly.

Hendrick retook command. "Alright maggots, enough scratching at your balls! Let's get moving!"

 **OoO**

The doctors that watched them were odd.

Shiro did his best to ignore their hovering, but no matter how hard he tried to blot them out, his eyes were inevitably drawn to them. Every day, without fail, he'd spot one just off to the side, a clipboard and pen in hand, inquisitive eyes tracking them all relentlessly.

They never spoke to them, never approached or interacted with them. Just watched, silent.

It made his uneasy and self-conscious whenever they were around - which seemed to be always now.

Being under this different type of scrutiny, knowing that his every move was being jotted down and examined by strangers, was making him paranoid.

He knew that the others shared his opinion, though no one ever made an attempt to share their thoughts with him. It was like an unspoken agreement amongst them.

Funnily enough, most of their unit appeared to have taken Colonel Iverson's words to heart, because the overall effort they put into the activities exploded. Shiro was still one of the most formidable, but now he had some serious competition.

This project was must be something. Or perhaps it was just Iverson's reputation, if this was the response a few measly words got.

Whatever it was, Shiro didn't care. He pushed himself more and more in his training, making his aptitude for the challenges they faced grow more prominent. The increased attention from the doctors only made his exclusion from his unit more eminent.

They snapped at him openly now, and Saunders in particular seemed hell-bent on beating him no matter the cost.

That sort of desperation was dangerous, and Shiro made sure to keep at least one eye trained on the other man at all times in case he tried anything underhanded.

The tension in their barrack was at boiling point, and Shiro was just waiting for the final threads to snap.

 **OoO**

It happened later that night.

Shiro should have seen it coming. He'd been on edge for the past week just waiting for the confrontation he _knew_ was headed his way.

He should have seen it.

But he'd been run ragged for the last two days by Hendrick, who seemed to think Shiro hadn't been challenged enough. He'd been pushed further than he'd been expecting, leaving him sputtering along like a broken engine. All because of Hendrick's zeal and belief that Shiro could handle it.

He _could_ but that didn't mean that Shiro _wanted_ the extra work.

So he'd been late finishing, and the night was already creeping over the camp as he had walked back towards the barracks.

He'd been overtired, and distracted, and too caught up in his thoughts.

He didn't hear them approaching.

But he did feel that harsh shove that sent him careening towards the side of the mess hall.

Shiro grunted and barely reacted in time to stop himself from ramming face-first into the rough wooden wall. His hands stung at the brutal impact, but he managed to catch himself just in time.

He spun around, pressing his back firmly against the building and taking a deep breath to calm himself.

There were four of them boxing him in the tiny alleyway between the two buildings. Because _of course there were._

Saunders was one. Because _of course he was._

Shiro couldn't even muster up the energy to be angry. He was just exhausted and hungry and cold, and this - _this utter bullshit_ that these idiots insisted on spreading - like some sort of _virus,_ infecting and rotting away from the inside out, destroying everything because they couldn't _see_ \- because they _refused to understand_ \- was physically painful to endure.

He was so tempted to just stand still and let this happen. To let them just punch their hatred out of their systems and hopefully _get over it._

But Shiro knew, down in his bones, that this wasn't going to be a regular fight. This wasn't like the scraps back home, where he had Keith at his back and knowledge of the area. These weren't some drunken men tripping over their own feet and slurring their insults.

These men were trained, and brutal, and their hatred for Shiro, at this point, was more about _who_ he was, rather than his name or the shape of his eyes.

He supposed it was almost ironic in a way, that for so long he'd wanted them to view him as who he really was instead of his ancestry, and now that they did, they _still_ despised him.

He'd laugh if he weren't so damn tired.

"Nowhere to run now." Saunders chuckled quietly, the sound tainted with anticipation.

Shiro's lips kicked up at the sides, more grimace than anything. "Was that what I was doing?" He asked, tilting his head. "You'd have to actually be scary to get me to run, Saunders."

The man's face twisted, but Shiro didn't care. His eyes were already jumping between them, scanning and categorising and planning.

Four opponents. Four threats. Four rage-filled, racist idiots with a bone to pick.

Slowly, Shiro let his gaze drift around the space they were in. It was a narrow alley, barely three metres in width; hardly enough room for any large movements. They'd have to get close, but not all at once.

That was good. One or two guys he could handle. But all of them at the same time was something he was hesitant to try - hell, he wasn't that cocky, or stupid.

"Shut up." Saunders hissed, stepping closer rapidly before bringing himself to a halt. Shiro's shoulders went taunt, and he wondered if Saunders knew that he'd stopped just outside of his range.

Antagonising him was a dumb thing to do, but Shiro's mouth moved of its own accord. "Why don't you make me, Saunders?" He dared. "That's if you have the guts, of course."

Oh he could almost hear Keith in the back of his head, calling him all manner of names.

He also heard the way the echo of his best friend barked _"Duck!"_ before Saunders' fist was flying towards his head.

Shiro sprung to the side, narrowly avoiding the hit that would've probably – definitely – rendered him unconscious.

This was not how he thought his night would go.

Shiro could fight. Growing up poor in New York – growing up with _Keith_ \- basically guaranteed that he knew how to throw and take a punch. Too many times over the years they'd found themselves in the middle of some sort of tussle, usually because some asshole couldn't keep his comments to himself.

His weeks at the camp had subjected him to many things, including hand-to-hand combat. It'd always been a harsh session, since more often than not the matches devolved into backyard brawls rather than proper lessons. But for all their faults, he had learned a lot. Those lessons honed his own budding form and taught him to harness the ferocity he typically kept under wraps. They'd shown him how to channel it into his movements, to take his back-alley technique and turn it into something lethal.

He was easily one of the best fighters in their unit.

Unfortunately though, Saunders was just as good.

Shiro knew that this was going to get bloody quickly. Saunders had been rearing to go toe-to-toe with him since they had met, and the last few days had clearly been the last straw if he was ambushing him like this.

He risked another glance at the three other men, recognising all of them with a bitter sting. There had never been too many friendly faces for him here, because while he was tolerated by a majority of the others, the anger that'd been fostered towards him was always present.

Shiro bit his lip and loosely fell into position, fists raised and eyes locked on his attackers.

Saunders was the most pressing threat out of all of them, that much Shiro knew from his time just watching the man. He'd been a boxer at some point, and his style and stamina reflected that. He also favoured his left side and hit with all the force of a charging bull.

No matter what, he couldn't be allowed to get a shot at Shiro's head. One punch would knock him out, or at least drop him long enough for Saunders _to_ knock him out.

He had to play this smart. Saunders would go all out right from the start. There was too much anger in him for him to just sit back and wait; and the three other men would likely be just as frantic.

But just because Saunders tended to be a brute didn't mean that he was stupid. He'd been watching Shiro as well.

He'd know how Shiro preferred to fight. How he liked to hang back and let himself study how his opponent moved, before coming in, swift and deadly, and subduing them.

Saunders would be expecting him to do that here.

Which meant, to get out of this thing alive, Shiro had to switch up his routine.

" _I really wish you'd stop this."_

 _Keith smiled at him, teeth bloodied and eyes alight._

" _I'm serious, Keith. You know that reacting is what they want. Just ignore what they say. Walk away."_

 _His friend's lips flattened. "They should learn to keep their mouths shut. They don't know shit about me or my parents."_

 _Shiro clicked his tongue softly as he dabbed at the red on his skin, backing down as he always did when Keith started on about his parents with that tone. "How many were there, anyway?" He asked absently, taking in the surprisingly small amount of injuries._

" _Six."_

" _Si –" Shiro's eyes bugged. "Christ. Keith, what the hell? How do you only have a few bruises?"_

 _Keith blinked up at him, his tongue coming out and prodding at the split in his lip. "I played defence."_

 _Shiro stared at him, alcohol-soaked cloth held aloft. "Defence?" He echoed, thrown by how_ blasé _Keith was with these things._

" _Yep." Keith said, popping the last sound. "Those bastards are so used to me running at them headfirst they're always caught off-guard when I change it up."_

" _That's your grand strategy?" He asked, incredulous. He pressed the cloth onto the cut marring Keith's cheek, ignoring the little hiss he let out. "Get them so used to you being reckless that when you – what, play it safe? – they don't know what to do?"_

" _Sure is." Keith told him once he took the cloth away, his lips curling at the corners, like he could smell the exasperation and panic bubbling inside him and found it_ funny. _"Pays to be unpredictable, Shiro."_

It was one of Keith's favourite sayings, and Shiro felt like smiling just from remembering his friend.

 _Pays to be unpredictable._

Well then.

Shiro settled in to wait, knowing that the thin tethers of restraint holding Saunders back would snap eventually.

Unpredictable.

He could do that.

It was only a beat or two, then Saunders all but launched himself at Shiro, eyes glinting feverishly and fist flying.

Shiro watched the hit coming and pivoted at the last possible second, dodging the attack smoothly.

Saunders followed him like a bloodhound, gaze intent, trying to guess where Shiro was going to retreat to.

Shiro grinned, ducked away from two more hits, then held his ground. Saunders, arm still outstretched, body off balance, could do nothing as Shiro lashed out, his knuckles cracking against the man's jaw.

Saunders cursed and stumbled away, spitting blood from his mouth with a scowl.

Shiro would have crowed at finally being able to punch Saunders, but he was immediately attacked by one of the other men. He grunted as thick arms wrapped around him, the force of the tackle driving him back into the wall again.

He wriggled an arm free and slammed his elbow down on the back of the man who'd grabbed him, knocking against his shoulder blade and loosening his grip.

Shiro quickly latched onto the man's shirt and drove his knee into his chest as many times as he could before shoving him away to avoid another punch.

He threw himself at the next attacker, sending them to the ground in a heap. They grappled, and Shiro almost bit right through his tongue when a fist clipped him on the chin.

The rush of adrenaline that crashed into him was heady and delicious and so terribly familiar. This was what he always felt, diving into a fight to lend Keith a hand, this rush of energy that crackled like lightning.

It was addictive, and Shiro felt the most alive he had since he'd been here.

He dug his knee into the man's ribs, and punched him once, twice, three times – before he was tackled again.

Shiro landed hard, the air driven out of his lungs, and couldn't do anything but cover his head as hits rained down on him.

It was brutal, and animalistic, and it made something inside him _shift._

He bucked his hips, displacing whichever of them had managed to pin him, and drew his legs up and out from the thighs trapping them. It was a simple thing to twist himself, to raise one leg and lock it around the man's throat and haul him down.

He could taste the blood in his mouth. Could feel it running down his face. Could smell the tang of it in the air.

A whistle pierced through the night, and lights – so bright they burned his eyes – illuminated the whole area. Hands, large and firm, grabbed him, ripping him upright and shoved him back into the wall for the third time. He tried to surge up against whoever had him, but more hands appeared, keeping him restrained.

A voice – multiple voices – raised and booming and hard to distinguish snapped at him to _stop_ and _calm down_ and _that's an order, Private._

The words cut through the haze he hadn't even realised had settled over him. Shiro slumped back into the wall, pressing his bloodied palms against the rough wood and trying to slow the thundering of his heart.

The man pressing him back – a MP, oh God he was in so much trouble – didn't relax his stance once, but lessened the pressure on Shiro's arms enough that it probably wouldn't join his fresh bruises.

There were more MPs over his shoulder, each picking up one of Shiro's attackers and dragging them off in different directions.

Shiro closed his eyes and let his head dropped back.

He was in such deep shit.

 **OoO**

Shiro stared down at the white bandages wrapped tightly around his hands. Patches of pinks and reds were slowly soaking through to the top layer, and every time he flexed his fingers he could feel the way his ripped skin rubbed against the fabric.

Just below, encircling his wrists, were handcuffs.

Shiro wasn't proud to say it wasn't his first time with silver around his wrists. But it _was_ over two years since he'd last had to endure being arrested.

He'd been doing so well. Keith would lose it if he ever found out. Which was ironic, considering that out of the two of them, Keith was the one on first name basis with the police.

 _Hypocrite,_ Shiro thought with quiet fondness.

He sighed heavily, then immediately winced. His sides were pulsating with pain, and he didn't need a mirror to know his face was already beginning to swell. He could feel every throbbing inch of skin.

It was quiet right now. After he had been stuffed in this room by the grim faced MP, and some nameless doctor had quickly strapped him up, he'd been left completely alone. Saunders and his little posse had been carted off to another room – out of sight and away from the remnants of Shiro's rage.

It was good that they weren't here. He could still feel that urge inside him, rumbling in agitation, only partly sated. If they were in front of him right now Shiro knew he wouldn't be able to help himself.

Even in the fight he'd been overwhelmed with that damned rush.

If the MPs hadn't heard the commotion and interfered, Shiro worried at what might have happened. Fights like that, they only escalated.

But what concerned him more was how good he'd felt, every hit he landed sent his mind buzzing. He'd lost control. He'd wanted to show them all exactly how stupid they were to think they could just corner him like an animal.

Shiro breathed deep, trying to keep himself calm. It was so hard to let it go, but with each inhale, each stretch of his chest, the agony stabbed through him – reminding him.

His hands started shaking and he clenched them, relishing in the fresh bursts of pain the move brought.

He was torn between disgust and vicious satisfaction at what happened. Because it was him – the _Jap,_ the _outsider_ \- that'd held off all four of them. They'd tried to bring him low, and instead he'd made them eat dirt.

He felt so horribly _proud._ And so utterly disturbed.

 _At least they won't say anything about you now,_ the whisper came from the corner of his mind, sounding once again like Keith. But the voice didn't sound happy, didn't approve of what Shiro did – or at least, didn't like that Shiro'd been caught.

 _Next time don't fight in the middle of a military base, you idiot._

It was just the right shade of derisive and concerned that Shiro had to smile. "Like you wouldn't have done the same thing," he muttered.

"Private Shirogane."

This voice, however, was all too real, and as unexpected as it was foreign. But it pronounced his name with an easy cadence that he hadn't heard in a while, and lacked any malice.

Those two facts were enough to grab his attention. Shiro half-turned from where he was sitting, recognising his visitor even if it took a moment from him to put a name to the face.

"Doctor…Trayling?"

The slim man smiled at him, the expression so at odds with the usual stern mask Shiro had seen him don that it made him uncomfortable.

As if sensing it, Trayling's mouth dropped and his face levelled out into something more neutral and believable.

"How are you feeling, Private Shirogane?"

Shiro frowned, his hands twisting in his lap before he forced them to go limp. "I'm fine, sir."

Trayling watched him with a strange gleam in his eyes, his pencil tapping on the paper of his clipboard rhythmically. His disbelief was tangible, but surprisingly he didn't call Shiro out for his lie.

"I was told you were in an altercation with four other privates. Would you care to explain what prompted it?"

Shiro glanced up at the other balefully, wondering if it would be rude to just gesture at his eyes. Honestly, what did the man _think_ was the cause? He thought doctors were supposed to be smart.

"Nothing, sir." He answered quietly, head dipping towards the floor. "Just a misunderstanding."

Trayling hummed, "Quite the misunderstanding. You are sure you do not have anything to add?"

Shiro hesitated, then shook his head.

The doctor nodded silently. "You know, the others have said little of the fight as well. Though I must say, it is rare for one person to pick a fight against four others for such inconsequential matters." The man looked at Shiro from over the rim of his glasses knowingly. "I often find it to be the other way around. How funny."

Shiro avoided those sharp eyes, uncomfortable. He wasn't surprised that Saunders and the others were keeping their traps shut. On the outside, they might have been able to wriggle out of attacking Shiro, what with the general outcry against Japanese-Americans.

But here? In the Goddamn army, where the lieutenants and the captains didn't tolerate _anyone_ being damn _assaulted,_ there was nowhere for them to hide.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes what they'd been planning. It didn't matter that Shiro had held his own, or that when the MPs had arrived Shiro had been the one that had to be dragged off of someone.

They'd picked a fight and hadn't been prepared for the fallout.

"You did rather well," Trayling continued, when Shiro made no move to speak. "considering that you were outnumbered and essentially trapped. But that's to be expected. You are one of the most proficient soldiers to come through the camp in a while."

Shiro glanced back up when Trayling started flicking through a number of pages, the stark white paper cascading down over the clipboard in front of him.

"Exemplary results in almost every subject. Consistent praise from all officers. A good head for tactics and demonstrates a number of natural leadership qualities."

Trayling cut to look at him, as if gauging his reaction. Shiro didn't know how he was supposed to.

He'd known, of course, that the doctors had been observing them and taking notes. But it was disconcerting to have the evidence tossed back in his face.

Though that Trayling was here – that he'd clearly asked for, and read through, the developing report on Shiro – was concerning.

The last time he had seen this man, he was in the company of Colonel Iverson. That fact alone put him on almost mythological standing.

Why was he so interested in Shiro?

"You're an impressive man, Private."

Shiro frowned to himself but he was raised with manners, so he ducked his head. "Thank you, sir."

The older man waved a hand in the air. "None of this 'sir' business, Private. I am but a doctor."

Shiro let himself finally smile a bit. "Thanks then, Doc."

Amusement – quick and sinuous – darted over the man's face, lightening it just enough to get some of the tension in Shiro's back to ease.

"I'll admit I was surprised to hear you were one of the ones involved, Private. You had always seemed a rather collected individual. Though I suppose we can't fault you for defending yourself. Still," Trayling sighed, lowering the clipboard with something close to dejection on his face. "I find it despairing how humans are so easily ruled by their emotions."

Shiro shrugged, fiddling with his bandages and ignoring how cold the metal felt on his skin. "That's what it means to be one, I guess."

Trayling's attention shot back to him, intrigued. "Oh?" He prompted.

Wrongfooted by the interest in his throwaway comment, Shiro could only shrug again. "Well, emotions make us who we are, Doc. I mean, would life even be worth living if we didn't get to experience them?" He glanced away, lips pursed.

"And yeah, I guess sometimes we feel a little too much, and that makes us do stupid things –" _like ambushing someone who's done nothing, or this whole bloody war, for instance_ " – but life isn't black and white anyway, and things always get jumbled up, so there's not much we can do about that."

Shiro looked down at his hands, gently curling his fingers inwards. "I, for one, think it's a good thing. Emotions – all of them. Love, joy, even anger or sadness…it makes us more. And sometimes following your heart is better than following your head."

His gaze trailed back to Trayling, who was staring at him with a curious expression on his face. Shiro flushed, ducking his chin in embarrassment. He hardly knew the man and here he was going off on a tangent about _feelings?_ God. "Ah, sorry, Doc. I didn't –"

Trayling cut him off, "Nonsense, Private. That was quite an insightful opinion. I suppose I can agree with you for the most part. Though as a man of science, I do prefer listening to my head more." The chuckle he gave successfully killed what was left of Shiro's discomfort.

"Now," he said, holding his clipboard high, "let us see just what the damage to you is. Your shirt, please."

Shiro looked down at his bound hands uncertainly. He wasn't sure how this was going to work.

"Ah, fret not." Trayling reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key, setting to unlocking Shiro's handcuffs.

"Are you allowed to do this?" Shiro asked, rubbing at the freed skin to sooth the faint irritation. "I was restrained for a reason."

Trayling shrugged, replacing the key and looking wholly unconcerned with what he'd done. "There's little you could do to hurt me, Private. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over at this point. Now, your shirt."

And with that blow to his pride, Shiro let the examination continue, swallowing down the minor amount of mortification in favour for examining just how badly bruised he was.

He followed all of Trayling's instructions, wincing only minutely when his burning muscles protested at some of the movements.

When the man finally finished taking down whatever notes he needed, and slipped his pen back into his coat pocket, Shiro bit back a sigh of relief.

"Well, Private. Other than being sore for a few weeks, you should make a full recovery. So long as you do not aggravate your injuries too much, I foresee no issues arising."

Shiro nodded, though he refrained from adding that by the time 'a few weeks' passed, he'd more than likely be on his way to the fronts. And after that – well.

"May I ask you something, Private?" Shiro glanced at Trayling absently as he plucked his shirt off of the bed and started redressing carefully.

"Do you have a family?"

The question - _that question_ \- was unexpected, and Shiro, with his arms still tangled in his sleeves, froze. His neck snapped up, eyes wide and confused.

The doctor was standing there patiently, his hands clasped politely in front of him. His utter lack of contriteness at asking the personal question had Shiro feeling uneasy all over again.

"I…no. My parents died a few years ago." He quickly tugged his shirt on completely and fiddled with a loose string there. "So, no family, I guess."

Trayling's head tilted, and he looked fascinated. Like an inquisitive child listening to a fantastic tale rather than a grown man learning about some fresh soldier's past. "But there is someone, yes? A…'sweetheart'?" The word fell awkwardly from the doctor's mouth, as if he'd only vaguely heard the term before and didn't know if he was using it correctly.

Unbidden, Shiro's cheeks flushed again. He quickly turned his head to hide the incriminating evidence. "Ah, no. No. No sweetheart, Doc." He tried to smile, but it was stilted and odd.

Trayling frowned lightly, and Shiro didn't like the assessing once-over he was treated to. Desperate to stop any further prying, Shiro spoke again, trying to keep Trayling from discovering anything dangerous. It was almost easy, with all the years of practice, to spew the words out believably.

"There's my best friend though." Whatever the doctor had been going to say tapered off, the interest returning to his gaze. "We've known each other for years now, and we share – well, shared, an apartment before I got drafted." Shiro rubbed at the bandages on his hand again, fingertips running along the seam to distract himself from the sudden pang of longing. This was the first time since coming here that he'd even mentioned Keith to anyone, and it made the separation between them that much more real.

"And you are close to him?"

The relatively innocent inquiry had him tensing, panic hitting him like a freight train. But even as his thoughts twisted in fear, his mouth was on damage control.

"We're close." _He's the only thing I still care about in this world._ "Always looking out for each other." _I'd do anything for him. Anything._ "He's like my little brother, in that way." _Lielielielielie._

"I see." Trayling looked thoughtful, head facing away from him. Shiro waited with baited breath, his skin itching with anxiety.

This was so incredibly dangerous.

"May I ask you something else, Private?"

 _Oh God, does he know?_

"Sure thing, Doc."

Trayling drummed his fingers on the clipboard, peering him intensely. "What do you seek to accomplish here?"

 _What?_ He thought. "I'm sorry?"

Trayling gestured for him to sit and at a loss, Shiro did so. The man mirrored him, seating himself on the chair next to the bed.

"I understand that you were drafted and did not necessarily choose to be here. But now that you are, now that you must partake in this war, I wonder what you wish to do with it." The doctor continued after a pause. "Some embrace the notion of eliminating an enemy. Some cannot wait to join the front, chasing dreams of glory. Some are so afraid of the thought that they cannot breath."

Shiro swallowed, eyes unable to move from the man. "Which are you, Private Shirogane?"

He let out a short breath and bit his lip. His mind was abuzz with questions and confusion as he took his time to answer. No one had ever asked him this before; not seriously, not wanting to hear his true opinions.

It was surprisingly easy for him to find the words.

"I don't want to kill anyone, Doc." He admitted, voice small and quiet. Shiro gazed down at his hands for the umpteenth time, rubbing and rubbing. "I'm not a killer, and the thought of taking someone's life…even to save my own…" He frowned, his apprehension plain to see. "I mean, I'm sure I will when the time comes, but I don't want to…"

He gritted his teeth, gesturing emptily with his hands. He knew that it might seem otherwise, covered in blood and bruises as he was, but even when he'd been in the throes of anger, he hadn't actually tried to kill Saunders or the others. Even in that state he'd had restraint.

"I don't want to become someone I'm not." He forced out, laying it at Trayling's feet like a gauntlet. Because for these past weeks he felt like all he'd done was change. "I just want to be Takashi Shirogane. And I'm afraid that I'll lose the thing what makes me _me_ out there."

Shiro closed his eyes. "But then I think about what might happen if things get any worse –"

 _Keith being drafted. Keith being sent to the fronts. Keith dying in some foreign country, so small and pale as he lay in the mud. Too young and too bright to be lost._

"– and I'm willing to stand up and fight. To protect what's important to me."

When he looked again, there was a weary, sad smile on the doctor's face. "Home and country?" He parroted, likely from one of the many posters hanging around the camp.

Shiro returned the gesture but shook his head slowly. "To protect him." He confessed, throat working at the lump that appeared there. "To keep him safe."

It was as close as he could get to actually saying it, and he had no clue if Trayling understood what he was alluding to, but the man nodded either way.

"A noble cause, Private Shirogane." He inclined his head, the move seeming to hold so much more significance than it should. "And congratulations, by the way."

Shiro blinked. "Pardon?"

Trayling pushed himself to his feet, hands slipping behind his back in a loose grip. He raised one eyebrow with an air of good humour. "You are officially my choice for this project."

Shiro's eyebrows shot heavenward and he promptly lost all form of social grace. "Wait – _what?"_

Trayling was smiling again, but it was subdued. Respectful. Real. "I am the Chief Scientist in charge of this operation. While I do have to pander to the military officials, I also have some sway in the proceedings." The man tugged his glasses off and looked unobstructed at Shiro. The weight of his gaze was palpable. "I had the option of selecting the first candidate to assist in the project, and I have decided on you, Private."

Shiro was stunned, staring up at the doctor with more than a touch of uncertainty.

 _Him. Trayling picked_ him?

" _Why?"_ He asked, baffled.

Trayling shrugged, and there was something secret lurking in his eyes. "This project is unlike any other. The participants will be given such an incredible gift. The colonel wants good soldiers. He wants men who will take orders and follow the chain of command. I, on the other hand, want someone capable of thinking for himself. Someone that understands the need for authority but is not opposed to challenging it when the situation calls."

Trayling's expression was almost fond as he stared at Shiro. "I want someone who is not blinded by notions of personal grandeur, or that allows biases to cloud his judgement. I want you, Private, because I believe you can be a good soldier and a great man."

"I…thank you." Shiro couldn't meet the man's gaze. He was incapable of even finding words adequate enough to respond with. After weeks of being hounded by barely suppressed hatred and cruel comments, having someone so blatantly list what they liked about him was liberating.

The only person who'd never been shy about that was Keith. Always going out of his way to cheer Shiro up when times were tough – or, if that failed, hunting down whoever had insulted him with extreme prejudice – always trying to protect Shiro even when Keith was the one that needed help.

But Keith was Keith. Trayling was different.

The doctor hummed. "I have watched you personally this past week. You are smart, and dedicated, and show a great depth for strategy. You understand the importance of completing a mission, but something tells me you would not hesitate to take another route if you believed it to achieve a better outcome. You are precisely the sort of man I would entrust this chance to, because I know you will do amazing things with it."

Trayling patted him on the shoulder. "In four days' time we will be moving to a more secure facility to debrief you. Until then, I wish you well, Private."

And then he was gone, leaving Shiro alone with his bruises and his questions.

 **OoO**

Sitting in the jeep, Camp McCoy becoming but a distant point in the rear-view mirror, Shiro had trouble naming the sensation budding inside him, nestled between his ribs.

It could hardly be considered sadness, since the place had done little to endear itself to him. But it was something. Something that made his heart twinge.

For all he tried though, the closest Shiro could get to properly labelling it was a loss of stability.

He'd grown comfortable there, despite how the camp had almost crushed him. How it'd pierced his flesh with its brittle teeth and tried to drain him dry. He'd allowed the place to shape him, to sharpen his broken edges until each was a weapon against the world.

Every aspect of his life had been controlled there for so long it was difficult to imagine a time when he hadn't been in the army.

And now, just when he'd finally started to establish himself, he was being shuffled around again, uprooted and left unsure.

Shiro huffed to himself, a wry grin on his face.

He had no idea what was waiting for him at the end of this drive, wherever it was they were going. All he did know was that a lot of high ranking officials would be coming in to witness this secretive project bear fruit.

The idea of being surrounded by such important men was unsettling, especially since Shiro didn't even know _what,_ exactly, they were coming to see.

Doctor Trayling seemed to think he'd excel though, and since the man was one of the top people in charge of this entire thing, Shiro was willing to take his word for it.

 **OoO**

They told him what they wanted to do, and Shiro spent the first half of the debrief staring at them blankly, wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate joke.

Because increased strength? Enhanced senses? Accelerated healing? It was like something out of a comic book – one of those ones that Keith used to horde like they were made of gold.

It, honestly, sounded ridiculous.

But all of the scientists, all of the doctors, all of his superiors were all so serious.

They showed him notes and drawings of things he could never hope to understand no matter how many times they explained it – like shoving these things in his face would somehow help him make sense of it all. They ran through the dangers of the procedure so that he knew he was, essentially, putting his life on the line. They told him what they hoped to accomplish by… _altering_ him.

Shiro wasn't convinced.

This was so much more than he'd thought it would be.

He'd been thinking along the lines of him testing a new weapon. He never thought _he_ might be the weapon they wanted to test.

And sure, in theory it sounded like an unbelievable opportunity – something that could save countless lives. It could, as Colonel Iverson said in the beginning, turn the tide of the war completely.

But Shiro…Shiro was a selfish person, despite what Trayling said.

He wasn't willing to risk dying before he even got on the battlefield. He wasn't going to take the chance of losing Keith because of some experiment.

And he'd told Trayling. He'd told him that he didn't want to be _changed._

Shiro spent the second half of the debrief trying to back out.

His steadfast refusal did nothing but aggravate the scientists, but Shiro could hardly care about that. They weren't the ones that might die from an experimental serum. They weren't the ones in danger.

They couldn't expect him to just agree without at least thinking it through.

Eventually they were forced to call a short break, and it was then that Trayling approached him.

Shiro stopped the man before he could open his mouth. "I'm sorry, Doc. But I can't do this. I don't want to be some souped-up guy – and that's if I even survive this thing."

Trayling's mouth was thin with disappointment even as he nodded in understanding. "It's perfectly alright, Private. Some things we just cannot bring ourselves to do." The doctor put his hand on Shiro's shoulder. "But at least consider this carefully before you reject it. I have no doubt that you would pull through the procedure. Your body is already strong and you are young."

Shiro's jaw clenched and he had to turn his face away. Trayling's fingers tightened the barest amount, on the verge of harm. "Being given these abilities would increase your chances of survival on the fronts, Private. You would be virtually indestructible. You would be able to come home, alive, which is not something everyone gets the chance at. You would get to see your friend again."

He knew what the other was attempting to do. Shiro saw through it the moment Trayling started talking. But knowing you were being manipulated didn't mean that the words were less effective.

He glanced down at his polished boots, nibbling on his lip.

There was some merit to what the doctor said. Going through with the experiment would give him the means to survive the war, so long as he played it safe. It'd give him the chance to make it home to Keith, even if he returned a little different than he had been when he left.

Were his own doubts really enough to stop him from taking this chance with his two hands? Hadn't he secretly promised himself that he would do whatever it took to get back to Keith?

The temptation was too strong for him to resist.

He peeked back at Trayling. "'Super-soldier', huh? That's what you're calling it?"

The doctor grinned at him, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder. "You will be pushed to peak physical prowess. You will become the ultimate force for our troops." The emotion in his eyes softened with gratitude. "You will save so many people." The man whispered, and Shiro was taken aback by how strained Trayling's voice became.

"I look at you and I see the future of my – our people. You, and all those that come after you…You are going to change everything."

"Doc?" Shiro asked gently, concerned. Trayling's eyes were wet with unshed tears. The man looked heartbroken but so hopeful.

Trayling blinked and swallowed. "Forgive me, Private. It has been so long since this all began, and the road was difficult. I almost lost faith in ever finding the correct formula. So many of my…colleagues doubted that we could ever succeed. That it would all be for nothing."

Shiro frowned, sympathy rising in him at how wretched Trayling sounded. When the man looked back at him though, his eyes were dry and filled with determination. _"Thank you,_ Takashi. _Thank you."_

The sheer amount of appreciation in those words rocked him to his core. There was nothing he could say in the face of it.

Instead, Shiro straightened his shoulders. "Let's do this, Doc."

 **OoO**

The restraints were cold against his bare skin, causing his muscles to jump and contract every time one was fastened over his body. He tried hard to ignore how deafening the _clicks_ sounded even in a room filled with the chatter of dozens.

Doctors and scientists and men in uniforms buzzed around and above him, excited and nervous and impatient.

It made Shiro feel incredibly small whenever a pair of unknown eyes raked over his prone, uncovered form.

Doctor Trayling never strayed far from his side, likely knowing that without his hovering presence Shiro would already be making for the door. He hated how pathetically grateful he was for the familiar face and the constant stream of mumbled, kind words.

It was the only thing keeping him in place.

They'd put him in some incomplete metal contraption and a far off, hysterical part of his mind cried _it's just like a coffin_ before he pushed it away, for fear of igniting his barely suppressed panic.

He focussed on counting his breaths, pacing it to the steadily beeping monitor just to his right, and listened with half an ear as Trayling addressed the other members that were congregating in the view area. He was distracted though, too busy watching two scientists step up towards him.

In their hands were several vials of bright blue liquid.

They slotted the vials into place beside him, the glide of them against the metal casing like knives being sharpened. He glanced over at Trayling, taking in the simmering anticipation in the doctor's expression.

A nurse stuck him with a needle while he wasn't looking and he winced at the pinch. "What was that?" He asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She was as stone-faced as every other one of Trayling's colleagues, with a thin veneer of disapproval and reproach dripping off her whole body. "Penicillin." She answered shortly, already melting back away from him.

Shiro looked down at his arm, craning his neck to study the area where she'd jabbed him.

"Takashi?" Trayling murmured.

He took a deep breath, head rolling to face the doctor once again and nodding when their eyes caught.

He was as ready as he'd ever be.

Trayling touched him on the arm one last time, patting him gently before he too moved away.

A new voice called out over the room, young and eager. "Serum infusion beginning in five, four," additional restraints pressed against his tender skin and he closed his eyes. "three, two, one."

The burn was immediate and Shiro surged up against the clamps, jaw clenched tight. He could feel it rolling through him, the rush cold as it spread like a virus. Staining his bones like an ink drop on a piece of paper.

He gasped in pain.

The machine around him whirred, though the sound hardly pierced through the veil of agony clouding him. He felt himself tilting upwards, but it was difficult to open his eyes and see. All he could think of was the fire in his blood, burning him from the inside out.

But just as quickly as it hit him, the sensation died.

When he finally managed to pry his eyelids apart, the pod had sealed around him.

"Takashi?" He heard dimly through the metal.

"Too late to back out, Doc?" He croaked, going for humour to cover the tremor in his voice. There were several dull knocks that reverberated around him as Trayling tapped the front of the machine.

Shiro sucked his lip between his teeth. He could only make out shadowed figures moving in front of him, the tiny, tinted window warping the outside world too much for him to know who they were.

The wait for the next step felt longer than the few seconds it actually was, giving him just enough time to thank God that he'd never been afraid of small spaces.

When it started he had to squint. The light grew and grew until he was bathed in it, the rays as bright as the sun itself. Unlike the serum, it took some time for him to feel it.

But _God_ it was so much worse.

Shiro was blinded by the light but his throat worked fine as he cried out.

He was being torn apart. The pain was everywhere and nowhere. Every fibre of his being was burned away and replaced over again in a never-ending cycle.

Shiro threw his head back and screamed and screamed and _screamed._

He must have blacked out, because when he next blinked his eyes open, hands were on him, propping him up. Voices were all around him. Loud - _too loud._

Shiro hung his head and groaned, both to escape the pitched noise and the sheer brightness of the room.

"Takashi? Takashi, can you hear me?" Someone mutter in his ear. Shiro turned towards it instinctively.

"Keith?" He tried to say but his mouth wasn't working and his tongue moved like slime.

Everything felt wrong and yet so much better than before. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, and curl up inside himself with contentment at the same time.

"Takashi, how do you feel?"

It was Trayling.

The biting disappointment at Keith's absence reared its head like always, but it faded quickly as the question registered.

He contemplated how to answer as he steadied his feet. Equilibrium returning to him too fast to be natural.

How could he put into words what he'd just endured, for people who could not possibly understand?

"Bigger." He settled on, voice little more than a whisper.

And it was true. Shiro had never been small, and his job had helped him build up plenty of muscles. But now that he actually looked around he could see he was easily one of the tallest in the room – even hunched over as he was.

He was heavier too, broader in his shoulder and thicker in his arms and thighs. Every twist of his body let him feel with new astonishment how his muscles rippled and twisted – stronger and more defined then they'd ever been.

He felt…he felt _good._

Shiro shifted so that he was no longer draped over the men supporting him and clenched his hands, watching raptly as the bones flexed. He was stunned to see the callouses that once covered his fingers were gone, leaving unblemished skin in their place.

A quick scan of his chest showed none of the bruises or marks there either.

It was a miracle.

The energy in the air was running rampant as the noise escalated. People shook hands, clapped each other on the back, and celebrated the success.

Shiro looked around, taking in how vibrant the world was through his new eyes, and smiled.

 **OoO**

There was an explosion, and a gunshot, and Trayling died.

Shiro's new life started with blood on his hands, a dead assassin, and a puddle of blue liquid on the ground.

* * *

 **Let me know what you thought guys :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have returned.**

* * *

Whatever Shiro expected to happen after watching the light fade from Trayling's eyes, it wasn't to be put to the side like an unwanted plaything and forced to become a dancing monkey.

The costume they stuffed him in was itchy, and tacky and so ostentatious that it physically hurt to look at most mornings. And to add insult to injury - like salt poured directly over a gaping wound - they'd given him a ridiculous title.

Captain America. The world's biggest joke.

He was nothing more than a wind-up toy, complete with his flimsy shield and tooth-rotting, brain-melting song about his non-existent exploits.

Shiro struggled not to die from embarrassment every time he had to step onto a stage. He was nothing more than a fraud.

He supposed the people working with him – his _entourage_ – were polite enough, and none of them appeared to be bothered by the performances or the travel. The girls in particular were sweet, even if their teasing got under his skin and made him squirm.

One of the most relieving things about their group though, was that none of them seemed to care that he was part Japanese. There had been some less than welcoming reactions from some of the stagehands in the beginning, but Shiro knew that was more to do with the role he was playing, then who he was. In fact, whatever disdainful comments they had disappeared the first time they saw Shiro lift a motorcycle over his head in rehearsal.

It was nice in a way, and he didn't feel completely alone with them around him. The days were long, especially when there were back-to-back shows on, but Shiro was used to worse at his old job.

It was still annoying though, and stifling in so many ways. He rarely had a moment to himself, under near-constant watch by either his co-workers, or the military personnel they had tagged him with. And on top of all that, there was the list of rules he had to adhere to.

It was longer than it needed to be, in Shiro's opinion, but there were three that he hated with passion.

First and foremost, was that the mask stayed on. Whenever he was in public doing anything even tangentially related to his role, his full costume was required. Officially, they told him it was because his identity was supposed to remain a secret; and that giving an actual name to the character he was playing might diminish his rising fame and the message he was trying to convey.

 _Unofficially,_ Shiro knew that it was because they could hardly have people discovering that a _Jap ,_ was the man behind their precious icon.

Secondly - and perhaps most importantly -he was, under no circumstances, allowed to write to anyone. It'd been months at this point since Shiro had seen or heard from Keith, and the lack of communication had him growing irritable with each passing day; causing him to snap at the others with increasing frequency. He always apologised after for his foul moods, but never could find the will to stop his anger from bubbling forth.

All he knew was that Keith had been sent a letter from the army, explaining that Shiro had been sent to the fronts. Shiro didn't like imagining what Keith's reaction had been to the impersonal note. They should have let Shiro write to him, to at least ease the pain the news would have caused.

It was the rule that most had Shiro gearing to leave.

And thirdly, outside of performances, he wasn't permitted to use his abilities.

It frustrated Shiro more than he would've thought, considering how little he had wanted the procedure initially. It just seemed so pointless to him, transforming him into a walking weapon, and then not letting him help with the war effort.

Asking him to not use his enhancements was like asking him to not use his dominant hand. It was like telling him to never look at the sky again. It was like forbidding him from thinking about Keith.

He couldn't _not._

They didn't understand. They didn't even try.

They'd changed him into this super-human _thing,_ and then acted like it was all something he could just turn off.

Shiro couldn't help but hear conversations happening a block away from him. He couldn't stop the way his mind whirled like a hurricane, entire thoughts and calculations dancing through him in the space between seconds. He couldn't control the way his eyes took in everything and carved it into his memory with a fine-tipped knife.

It _hurt_ to try and suppress those things. They were a part of him, so normal to him now that he didn't even realise how unnatural he was these days.

He understood the need for secrecy surrounding him though - it burned too, being able to see the logic behind their decisions - and how much they wanted to keep him safe. Seeing as Trayling's death - assassination, murder - and the loss of the final vial of serum, had voided any chance of creating another soldier like him. It made sense that they would want to protect their investment.

But reducing him to this was just stupid. Surely some of the greatest tacticians of today could see that?

You didn't win a ballgame by benching your strongest players.

But for months his life remained unchanged. Stagnant, even though each minute was crystal clear in his head, crawling by.

The only thing that kept his bitterness at bay - that stopped it from eating him from the inside out - was the sight of all of those bright young faces grinning up at him.

He might chafe at his predicament, but the audiences loved to see him. Loved to see him punch 'Hitler' in the face, or get his autograph, or read his comics and watch his movies - and the first time he had seen those, Shiro had decided that even if her were allowed to write Keith, he wouldn't breathe a word of being Captain America to the other, because Keith would _never let him live it down._

For the people watching him, he was more than a character performing on a stage. For them, he represented all their loved ones currently fighting. For them, he embodied all of the beliefs their country upheld.

They looked at him and saw a hero, and Shiro found himself incapable of breaking the hopeful fantasy that they had concocted around him.

The only thing he could do was grit his teeth, smile, and pray for release.

 **OoO**

Being shipped to Italy to tour to the active servicemen and women was the blessing he was waiting for.

Well. Initially.

America was in the grips of terror right now, and Shiro had dutifully fulfilled his role as more and more people like him were being carted around the country.

He'd trembled with rage when he had first heard about the law passed by the government. How they were taking Japanese-Americans and rounding them up in camps like...like cattle.

For _safety._

He couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened to Keith. He didn't want to contemplate the reason for their lack of communication - how even when he'd been in basic, there had been not even a whisper from his friend.

The very idea of Keith trapped in one of those camps - all because of a mother he'd never known and who had left so long ago no one seemed to remember her - made him sick. Being trapped and surrounded by strangers, all because of his blood.

And to make it worse, all of his inquiries returned unanswered. It was like Keith had dropped off the face of the earth. No matter who he asked, no matter how many times he chased after them, there was simply nothing.

All the while, the fear grew amongst the people, and the laws became harsher in response. Like some demented loop they couldn't break.

His fellow tour members learned quickly to leave him alone each time the news turned sour.

And Shiro was suddenly, privately, glad that he had been drafted, no matter how his gut clenched and his mind screamed _coward._ He was glad for this ridiculous job of promoting war bonds, because if the other option was internment, then he would rather risk his life fighting in some far-off land. At least then he would have the illusion of freedom.

So getting out of America was a relief in many ways, even if the thought of being in a different country – the thought of an entire ocean between him and everything he's ever known, between him and Keith, wherever he was – was unfathomable.

But Italy was interesting, and Shiro enjoyed the trip to the base, marvelling at the difference between his home and this new country. How even the air tasted different. It helped him to take his mind off of all the trouble brewing behind him.

It was relaxing, in an odd way. It felt like he was finally where he should be.

Right up until his first show, at least. Right up until he was confronted with the contemptuous reactions of the actual soldiers. Where he fled the stage with burning cheeks and disgust heavy in his chest.

Shiro couldn't even blame them for it.

He was barely even a soldier himself, and one that had never seen combat to boot. To them he was nothing more than a wet behind the ears boy, a lie and an insult in equal measure, rubbed into their faces.

War wasn't some flashy show. War destroyed. It torched and ripped and murdered without care. These men had lost friends. They'd lost family. And having Shiro prance in front of them, pretending to be some _better_ version of them –

Whoever thought he'd be welcome here was an idiot.

 **OoO**

He tore the mask from his face, scrubbing a hand over his bare face roughly, trying to rub away the stinging bite to his cheeks. The large overcoat he had tossed on just minutes before was too tight around his shoulders, but it covered the bright splash of colour that was his costume, and that was all Shiro wanted right now.

He squeezed himself tighter into the gap he had found, stuffed between two large crates and far away from the echoes of the scornful crowd.

This wasn't how he had thought his life would turn out when he was drafted. But, Shiro thought with a sharp scoff, things in his life never tended to go the way he thought.

He's expected to be sent to the fronts to fight. He'd been nurturing the idea that he'd probably die in the near future. He'd thought he'd never get to see Keith again.

And now he was here, after months of traipsing his way through the states, making a fool of himself. Yet he was the furthest thing from a soldier that he could possibly be.

Captain America was a goddamn fraud. Nothing more than a stupid little puppet.

These men didn't respect him. They took one look at his uniform – too obvious, too bright, too thin, nothing more than a giant walking target – and laughed in his face. After they had spat in it, of course.

Shiro raked his fingers through his hair, viciously digging his gloved nails along his scalp. He could still hear that taunts of the soldiers echoing in his ears like a never-ending reel.

He knew some of the others would be looking for him now, but the last thing he needed right now was their awkward brand of pity. God, after that show, he wanted nothing more than to find the nearest river and drown himself to save himself any more embarrassment.

"Any news on them yet?"

Shiro's head snapped up at the sudden voice, startled and worried that someone had stumbled across him. His hand automatically reached for his mask, bunching the flimsy fabric in his palm. If anyone caught him with his face uncovered –

"Not that I know, but you get how it is man. Like the Colonel'll tell us anything."

"Well they bloody well should!" The first man snapped, tone filled with righteous anger and no small amount of sorrow. "Those guys are ours! Their – some of them are my friends, dammit! We deserve to know what happened to them!"

The second man laughed bitterly, seeming unconcerned with the other's harsh voice. "Three guesses what."

Shiro held his breath, pressing his back harder against the wall of crates and praying that it would be enough to hide him from view should either of the men come closer.

"You don't think they're…"

The second man took a moment to answer, and Shiro heard a sharp scrap before he was assaulted by the scent of cheap cigarettes. It burned his nostrils, and he placed the back of his hand against his nose to try and block it out. He'd grown used to the barrage on his senses travelling through the states, but after the trip here with only the crisp, cleansing air of the sea surrounding him, the smoke was pungent.

"I think it'd be a miracle if they kept 'em alive this long. Think about it – how much food and stuff they'd have to – to waste." There was a rough sigh. "I'm not holding out much hope for 'em. You shouldn't either. Those bastards wouldn't have the decency to keep that many prisoners."

There was a loud crack as one of the crates was struck by something. Shiro bit the inside of his lip as his interest roared to life.

"It's not fair! We should be out there looking for them. Instead they got us watching some idiot dance around. Who the fuck cares about 'Captain America' anyway?"

Even though he'd already heard plenty of the same before, some sliver of Shiro still crumbled in the face of such overwhelming revulsion.

The second one snorted in agreement, and Shiro ducked his head. "You got that right. I mean, if this 'Captain America' tosser is so star-spangled awesome, he'd go out there and rescue our boys."

It was a joke, he knew it was a joke. But Shiro couldn't quite help the way his mind jumped on that. He could almost hear Keith's firm voice whispering _Shiro, don't be a fucking idiot,_ in his ear, but for the first time he pushed that lingering presence away.

His mind rushed back over what he'd overheard.

Missing men. Captured by the enemy and – according to these two – no efforts being made to rescue them.

His hands clenched around the lip of the crate he was sitting on, only loosening his grip when he felt the wood start to splinter. Shiro lifted his hands away with a jerk, staring down at his fingers.

His eyes drifted down to the mask he had let fall to the ground, then to the shield propped up against his seat.

The empty eye-holes stared up at him. The blinding 'A' on the forehead taunted him. The red, white and blue of his shield mocked him.

Shiro's jaw set.

He waited until the two men departed, voices still low and gruff as they spoke; then he slipped his mask back on, cast aside the overcoat, and grabbed his shield.

He needed to find someone who would have answers.

 **OoO**

Colonel Iverson wasn't that hard to track down once Shiro knew who to look for. A few harmless questions, a handful of discouraging looks, and he was being pointed in the direction of the base's makeshift command tent.

But when he did finally manage to wriggle his way inside, the man was less than impressed to see him.

Shiro bit his lip, frustration simmering low in his gut as he was once again brushed to the side with nothing more than curt response. He kept pushing though, because Shiro was stubborn to a fault and had a desperate need to do something thrumming in his veins.

He almost wished he hadn't. That he had walked right back out of the tent at the first sign of dismissal.

The plan they had to resolve the situation made his stomach convulse in horror.

And it didn't matter that he could see the regret swimming in Iverson's eyes. It didn't matter that the man said the decision would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It didn't excuse _this._

"Sir, you can't do that." The protest was out of his mouth before Iverson had even finished speaking.

Whatever faint indulgence the colonel had for him died a swift death. "Listen here Shirogane and listen good." Iverson stalked into his personal space, shoving their faces close, and even with the serum, even knowing that there was little the man could really do to hurt him, Shiro felt himself shifting away.

"You're a show pony, alright son? You're nothing more than a glorified dancing girl. You might have been top-shit in basic, but that means nothing out here." Shiro's eyes dropped, tension winding through his body. Iverson slipped closer, nose-to-nose now.

"That serum might have made you super, but don't you dare think that you're a soldier. My decision on this matter is final. Now, I expect you to shut the hell up and march your ass back to your tent. Am I understood?"

Shiro dipped his head, humiliation sizzling inside and cheeks stained red from anger.

He only made it several steps outside before he had to stop, hands trembling with the urge to hit something.

Soldiers walked by him, and distantly Shiro knew that some were muttering about him. He could see the barest movements of their lips, see the derision in their gazes as they went about their business.

But he could only hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, the rush of blood fast and dangerous.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

All he could think about was how utterly unfair this was. There were potentially hundreds of their men in that base. Shiro didn't have the exact number of those missing, but as far as he was concerned, even one life was one too many.

And they weren't even going to try and save them?

He pressed his knuckles into the bridge of his nose, hard enough to leave a bruise he knew wouldn't last.

He couldn't just sit by and let the colonel sacrifice that many soldiers, no matter how strategic the move might be.

Some of those men would hardly be twenty-one – only a few years older than Keith.

The idea of Keith being one of those captured, of being held under terrible conditions, praying for a rescue that would never come – only getting fire and death and destruction with no hope of returning home –

Shiro cut that line of thought off just so he could breath.

He knew what he would do if Keith was in their place. Nothing would stop him from tearing that base apart with his bare hands to find him.

But he couldn't just ignore a direct order from his superior. Could he?

" _The colonel wants good soldiers. He wants men who will take orders and follow the chain of command. I, on the other hand, want someone capable of thinking for himself. Someone that understands the need for authority but is not afraid to challenge it when the need calls for it."_

Trayling's voice echoed in his head, along with the man's choked last words of _"Save them…you must…save my –"_

Softer, but just as powerful was Keith's parting message.

" _Make me proud."_

Shiro glanced up and around, slipping between the first two tents he could when no one was watching. He could feel the determination settle in his bones. He knew what he had to do, and nothing short of a chest full of bullets would stop him.

His feet carried him in the right direction.

He already knew the general location of the enemy base, thanks to the glimpse he had gotten of the map on Iverson's desk – and this new and improved memory was a huge boon Shiro swore he would never take for granted. All he had to do was get there.

Luckily, he knew the layout of this camp. Particularly, where the vehicles were.

They were already close to the Austrian border, but the base was about thirty miles beyond that. The bombing would not take place for at least another three days, while the cogs of the brass were turning, and approval was being sought.

If he wanted any chance of beating the planes and rescuing those men, he would need to leave immediately.

He snuck by the guards, ears strained and eyes darting everywhere, until he found a motorcycle. Straddling it, Shiro felt something bubble in his chest that he'd not experienced in a long time.

It felt suspiciously like excitement.

 **OoO**

He rode the bike as close to the base as he dared before ditching it, not willing to attract any attention with the noise.

It turned out to be a good idea, since after only ten minutes of creeping through the dark forest, Shiro had to hide behind the first bush he could. The trees cut off rather suddenly, giving way to a wide dirt road, and a convoy of trucks roared past his position, headlights piercing the night like daggers.

Shiro dug his gloved fingers into the bark and forced his heart to slow back to normal.

Staying low, he followed the twisting road, keeping pace with the line of vehicles. He only was forced to stop when the forest once again vanished, opening out into a vast, flat area.

Shiro's mouth dropped open at the sight before him.

The base was monstrous. A heaping mass ruling the landscape, with towering walls, bright lights illuminating the entire area, and guards patrolling in waves.

He knelt down, his confidence wavering for the first time. His eyes scanned what he could see, and the longer he watched, the more uneasy he became.

It would be impossible for someone to get inside that undetected. There was no way he could even get close enough without being seen and shot.

He searched his brain for anything, an idea, a vague plan, something that could get him safely from the tree to the base without –

Shiro blinked, struck with a bolt of inspiration. He turned his head, watching as the trucks continued to rumble past him slowly. He looked to the front of the line, and an idea unfurled in his mind when he noted that the sentries weren't even bothering to search them.

So far inside their own borders, they must think themselves safe.

 _Lazy,_ he thought as he crept back towards the convoy. _But I'm not complaining._

He bounced on the balls of his feet, counting down the seconds until the last truck was going by him. He launched himself at the truck, sliding the last few metres until he was just behind it.

He climbed inside swiftly and silently, squeezing himself as far into the shadows as he could. The boxes and sacks of supplies bumped into him, casting odd shadows and hopefully hiding him from view.

He focussed on the driver, stretching his abilities and listening to see if the man suspected anything. The heartbeat in his ears was steady, and the tune he was humming never faltered. Shiro let himself sigh quietly in relief.

He sat in the dark as the truck inched along, hands braced on two boxes to keep himself from jostling about too much. He held his breath when the truck crawled to a halt, eyes trained unerringly to the silhouette that was stalking down the side of the truck, standing out starkly on the thick canvas.

After what felt like hours, he heard a man speak in German, and the truck rumbled forth. He caught a glimpse of the gate through the flaps covering the back section and smiled in disbelief.

He was in.

Shiro crept towards the back of the truck, staying safely out of the light and watching what he could see of the passing scenery curiously.

There seemed to be a lot more soldiers then he had assumed, he thought as he saw another whole patrol march by. Shiro knew then that fighting his way out of here would be impossible if he didn't have backup. He could only hope that the captured men would be fit enough to help him escape.

 _If they're still alive._

As he sat there, he saw walls rush by, large and grey. The truck began to decelerate again, and Shiro guessed that they were finally parking. He hunkered down, one hand coming up to grip the familiar edge of his shield. It was little more than a painted sheet of metal, but it was better than nothing.

He readied himself for the first sign of someone approaching the back of his truck. The engine turned off. A door slammed shut. Voices rose.

Shiro waited as the voices of the drivers drew further away, their tones light and casual, without a hint of suspicion, until they were gone completely. Shiro loosened his tense position the longer the quiet dragged on. He jumped when the lights suddenly cut out, plunging the whole area into darkness.

He blinked frantically, his eyes adjusting far quicker than they used to.

Shiro stayed where he was until he was sure there were no other people close by, before he pulled the canvas flap open and jumped out, his feet barely making a sound on the dirty concrete floor.

He slid along the side of the truck and darted behind the first pile of crates he came across. He held his breath as he waited for any sign or noise to indicate that he'd been discovered.

But there was nothing other than the distant sounds of machines and the rumblings of far off conversations. Shiro slumped backwards and thanked God that his luck was holding out.

He crept away from the direction the drivers had gone in, heading towards a simple door that was tucked away into the corner of the warehouse. Once he reached it, he pressed his ear to it, closing his eyes as he searched for any hint of someone on the other side.

Shiro straightened, satisfied, and opened the door inch by inch until the gap was wide enough for him to slip through. He was met with a long hallway, doors lining each side.

At a loss, Shiro walked a little further before picking one at random. The knob turned without an issue.

The room he entered was chaotic, filled with cabinets and with files strewn about. The desk that dominated the opposite wall was covered completely in half-opened boxes and a small mound of black-and-white photos.

Shiro drew closer and riffled through the top layer, his gloved fingers skimming over some of the images with a sick feeling in his gut.

The images were of men. Dozens and dozens of different faces staring back at him. But they were all wrong.

Some were strapped down, their expressions twisted in utter agony and the skin around their eyes bunched unnaturally. Others were contorted in unimaginable ways, but the pain in their eyes showed they were still alive. One was even ripped open, his chest displayed in graphic detail, head thrown back in mid-scream.

Shiro's hand slipped over his mouth to stop himself from throwing up.

They…they were experimenting on people. Torturing them. But why?

Disgusted, he pushed the stack of disturbing photos away from him. In doing so, his eyes caught on the edges of a file. He slid it out fully. It looked completely ordinary, like any of the other files littering the room, but it was the name etched across the top of it in bold red ink that had Shiro's eyes widening.

 _TRAYLING_

Why would there be a file about the doctor here?

Shiro had known that Trayling was a high-ranking individual after seeing him with Iverson, and he supposed his status as a lead scientist would make him of interest to their enemies.

He flicked the file open, his curiosity sparking.

His heart ached at the familiar face looking up at him from the photo clipped to the first page. It was so clearly Trayling, though he was far younger than he'd been when Shiro had met him and lacked the thick beard and glasses.

The doctor's death still weighed heavily on Shiro, even with how little he knew about the man. He felt angry whenever he thought about it, how Trayling never got to see the true success of his work, that the chance was taken from him. And, sometimes, when it was late and his bitterness was hard to hide from, Shiro felt outright cheated that the doctor was gone. He would have liked to have at least one person around that could understand him.

He studied the picture, fascinated at seeing such a different version of the man. Shiro lifted the photo so that it was closer to his eyes and squinted at the grainy image – a blurry snapshot of Trayling in a park of some sort – because it almost looked like there were bruises under Trayling's eyes. But the shape was too fine for that to be right.

It didn't matter. Shiro's eyes drifted back to the file, skimming rapidly, hoping to discover just what these people wanted with the dead doctor.

Most of it was in some form of code, with only the occasional German gracing the paper. And even if the language barrier had not been a problem, the large censured parts of the document were.

Still, Shiro could feel the pages being branded into his mind. It seemed that not being able to read the language meant nothing to his brain. He wondered if he might be able to rewrite some of it later for someone else to translate.

 _It's worth a try._

His head snapped up suddenly. There was someone coming.

Shiro closed the file and sprung away from the desk. His neck twisted as he looked frantically for somewhere to hide.

His eyes landed on a grate near the roof and he made for it without a second thought. He only hesitated when he saw just how small the space was. Squeezing himself in there would be difficult enough – with his shield it'd be downright impossible.

Shiro looked to the door in fear, the debate warring inside him as his thoughts tied themselves in knots. The unfaltering best of footsteps in his ears made the decision for him.

He shrugged the shield off and stuffed it behind the closest filing cabinet, pushing it as far behind it as he could and making sure its brightly coloured surface was facing the wall.

It would have to do.

He swung back to the vent, pulling the grate off as quietly as he could and pushed himself in feet first, using the filing cabinet for balance. He replaced the grate just as the door shot open.

He tensed, body thrumming with adrenaline.

A woman stepped into the room, her long pale hair tightly wrapped in a bun. She was tall and carried herself with a deadly sort of grace. It was hard for him to pinpoint her age, as she seemed both far too old and terribly young at the same time.

The woman paused on the threshold, one thing hand curled around the doorframe. Her cold eyes began scanning the room, methodical and frightening.

Shiro became aware of the prickling along the base of his neck, right where the seam of his mask was. It felt like knives were being dragged over his skin, and he couldn't help by think this woman was looking through the room's walls, rather than at the room itself.

She took three precise steps forward, her body always gliding on the concrete floor, her boots clicking softly.

It made his heart pound, faster and faster as her eyes rounded almost to where he was hidden away.

"Mistress."

He barely stopped the urge to jerk when the soft voice echoed up to him. Shiro's eyes flittered about, trying to find whoever was talking.

"What is it?" In contrast, her voice was rough and guttural. Harsh. Like her throat had been rubbed raw.

The need to the find second, unknown speaker was met equally by his surprise that whoever these people were, they were speaking English. It was perfect and crisp, not a hint of the accent he would have expected from a German.

His confusion was forgotten when he saw a figure seem to bleed into existence behind the woman.

"215 is a failure. His body collapsed on itself."

There was a soft hiss from the woman. _"Humans."_ She spat, sounding both frustrated and exhausted. "So weak. Their only usefulness is their abundance."

She spun on her heels, elegant as a dancer. "Prepare the next one. Hopefully 216 yields the results we need."

The man stepped closer, finally allowing Shiro to get a clear look at him without the heavy shadows clinging to his form.

He was tall as well, and thin, much like the woman; and has a quiet confidence to him that was somehow more intimidating than it should be. The only other remarkable thing about the man was the bone white mask he wore over his face.

Just who were these people?

Shiro had never seen anyone like them before, and the uniforms they wore – similar to the German one in design – were the wrong colours entirely. Blacks and greys, with royal purple and gold highlights running along the ends. The only thing they were wearing that tied them to the Germans was the band of red wrapped around their upper arms, with the swastika emblazoned on it.

"And what of the crystal?" The woman demanded.

 _Crystal?_

"It continues to work as expected." The man reported easily, "Though fluctuations in its output have been noted several times. We believe it is under stress."

The woman clicked her tongue in agitation, her brows drawing into a deep frown. "We must proceed with caution then. That crystal is our only available subject right now. Without it, the teladuv will never be functional."

Shiro cocked his head at the unfamiliar words and wondered if maybe they weren't speaking English after all.

"Shall we postpone experiment 216 then? To give the crystal time to recover?"

The woman turned her back to the man, stalking further inside. Shiro shrunk away from the grate, uncertain if she might be able to spot him and hoping to God that she wouldn't see his shield.

"The fate of our operation rests on these experiments, we will continue as we have. Time is of the essence, and our enemy was rumoured to have already made a successful trial."

The masked man tilted his head, but without access to his face, Shiro had difficulty knowing what he was thinking.

"One successful trial means nothing they cannot recreate it. The commodore's death put us behind in our own work, but it also ensured that his research went with him. And, Mistress Haggar," the man continued, "if those rumours held any credence, we would have seen their agent's work by now. The lack of any sign suggests that his final experiment was a failure."

The woman – Haggar – snorted. "Yes. Trayling always liked his secrets. His unwillingness to work with others was borne from both paranoia, and fear of repeating past mistakes."

One of her hands reached over and brushed aside the grotesque photos like they were nothing, and she plucked the file on Trayling up from the desk. Shiro bristled at her casual disregard, acting like those men and all the pain they were subjected to was of little consequence.

From his vantage point, Shiro could see the cruel upwards twist to her mouth as she traced over the photo of Trayling. "And you should be less naïve than that. To believe that a lack of evidence is enough to draw an absolute from…" The look she threw over her shoulder was scornful and unimpressed. "We live in a universe of impossibilities and unquantifiable occurrences. We rule nothing out, is that understood."

She flipped the file closed and tossed it back onto the desk, stirring the other items and causing a handful of photos to breeze to the ground. She didn't even seem to register the noise they made. "Trayling's experiment may have failed, or maybe it is being carefully contained by the Americans. To assume anything would be to leave ourselves vulnerable to surprises. And I _despise_ surprises."

 _They're talking about me,_ Shiro realised with a jolt. His skin started itching again, like he when he was surrounded by the doctors and scientists at camp, the ones studying his every move.

The masked man bowed his head, "Of course, Mistress. Forgive me for overstepping."

She appeared to loom over the man all of a sudden, despite their height difference. She was silent for a long moment, though when she spoke it was with a frigid note in her voice. "Prepare 216. We have already lost enough time."

The man bowed again, lower this time and borderline reverent. "Vrepit sa." He murmured, the strange words falling from his mouth like a caress. Then, just as mysteriously as he had appeared, the man vanished back out into the hallway.

Shiro watched with bated breath as the woman stayed where she was for over a minute, before she went for the door as well. He listened as the lock clicked into place and waited where he was until the sound of her light footsteps faded completely from his ears. Then, and only then, did he allow his head to drop and a heavy sigh to escape his lungs.

That had been far too close for comfort.

Shiro knocked the grate back out, catching it before it collapsed to the floor, and shimmied halfway out of the vent. He gently lowered the grate, then pulled himself up to grip at a ceiling beam to haul his legs free. He dropped to the ground in a crouch and retrieved his shield.

As he hefted it back into place, he took one last look around the dimly lit room.

There was something new scorching through his chest, something that tasted like anger by was _so much more._

These people, whoever they were – murderers, torturer, _monsters_ – wouldn't succeed in their horrid plans.

He was going to make sure of it.

 **OoO**

After that almost-run in, Shiro found traversing the base shockingly easy.

This was the first time he was truly able to stretch his abilities, to push himself and test his limits, and it was invigorating. His hearing was amplified to an insane degree, and while Shiro had already noticed that, for months he'd be actively trying to block his sharpened senses. Building walls and holding himself back.

Now, he let those walls slip away.

He was overwhelmed in those first few seconds when he loosened his control, tempted to clap his hands over his ears to stop the influx. But when he finally started to filter out the unnecessary noises – the churning of machines, the buzz of electricity in the lights, the heartbeats surrounding him – and focused, he was able to dodge patrols and avoid detection without a problem.

He had been able to scale the side of a building like it was nothing. He had cleared a forty-foot jump between rooftops without losing his breath. He had vaulted over a wall without a runup.

The effortlessness with which his body moved was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Because Shiro had the ability to help so many people like this. He could do things no one else could, he could put himself at risk like this, because there was a good chance he'd walk away from it.

But it also drove home the irreversible fact that he was different now. Trayling had said the serum would enhance him, would push him to "peak human condition". But this was more than that. Shiro could feel it in his bones.

He didn't even know if he could consider himself a human anymore. Humans couldn't do half the things he could.

Would Keith even recognise him anymore? What would he say, if they saw each other again? Would he care? Would he sake his head and punch Shiro's shoulder like he always did; or would he turn away in disgust – or worse, fear?

The thought of Keith being afraid of him hurt in a very physical way, and Shiro was ashamed of how quickly he shied away from the idea.

His thoughts continued to spiral, so much so that finding the missing soldiers in one of the western warehouses was a relief in more ways then one. Though it was a short-lived distraction once he saw the large cages they were being kept in.

Shiro's hands shook with rage as he wrapped them around the thick, coarse bars. He could bend them like they were made of straw, he knew.

In the first cage that he went to the men that looked back at him were thin, and filthy, and they snarled at his approach.

"Who're you?" One spat, and Shiro would have withered under the sheer hatred in his eyes if he weren't struggling to get a grip on his own.

His name sprung to the tip of his tongue automatically, but here, in the midst of the enemy's territory, Shiro knew it was especially too dangerous to slip up. He choked back the urge, and instead offered what he hoped was a confident smile. "I'm Captain America. I'm here to rescue you."

The shock and disbelief were there, and when Shiro took a firmer hold on the bars and pulled, their eyes bugged out of their faces. Shiro tossed the bent and ruined bars off to the side, holding back a wince when they clattered loudly. He could hear the other men stirring rapidly.

"Let's go." He said, reaching out and hefting the closest man to his feet like he weighted nothing.

"What the _fuck?"_ Someone hissed.

The men stumbled after him as he went to each of the cages, ripping the bars clean off or breaking the thick locks with a twist of his wrist. The voices rose slowly, confusion and excitement zipping through them as more and more were released.

Once all of them were free – up to a hundred men, Shiro squished his fury down – he climbed atop one of the cages and got their attention.

"Listen," he said, voice becoming steel, "we don't have much time. This entire facility is still swarming with guards, and if we want any hope of getting out of here alive, we have to work together." The men stared up at him, but their faces were twisted in various forms of sneers.

"I know you want revenge," Shiro started, having no idea what he was saying but hoping it would work. "I know they've hurt you and done unspeakable things to you. But the most important thing right now is _getting out._ I came here to save you. Each and every one of you. Because your lives are worth more than landing a blow to the enemy. But getting out of here will only happen if all of us work towards the same goal. Is revenge really worth sacrificing your chance at freedom?"

Shiro could see most of the men shift, could spot the shared looks and the weariness that overtook them.

 _They just want to go home,_ he thought sadly. "You've suffered enough." He told them, because it was the truth. What these men had gone through – _those photos_ – everything they had endured…Shiro had never respected a group of men more than these ones standing in front of him.

Getting them to agree to his – admittedly shoddy – plan was far easier after the ferocious sparks had died down.

"We'll need weapons." One of the men piped up, gruffly. Shiro cut a look at him, but the man just shrugged. "I ain't walking out there without a gun, kid. I ain't looking for payback, just protection."

It was a good idea, he acknowledged. Shiro glanced around. "Anyone know where we can find some then?"

"There's an armoury in the main factory. We've never been able to break into it before, though." One of them said.

Shiro rubbed his chin. If the locks on the armoury were anything close to those placed on the cages…

"I might be able to." He mused.

 **OoO**

A handful of men accompanied him to the armoury.

Shiro took down the seven guards they came across with brutal speed, necks cracking beneath his hands like twigs before they even realised what was happening.

He ignored the awed and wary gazes that drilled into his back.

He ignored the way his stomach churned every time he felt those fragile bones snap under the barest amount of pressure.

He ignored the fact that he was now a killer seven times over.

 **OoO**

Once armed – not everyone, but those that didn't have a weapon stuck close to those that did – Shiro felt at least a little more confident about their chances of escape.

As they were starting to map out their route, five men came to him, hustling him off to the side and away from the main group.

"What –"

"They had us making weapons." One of them said, cutting him off swiftly. He was the same one who suggested retrieving the guns in the first place. Shiro glanced at him and frowned. "Tanks, in particular. But we didn't." He continued, like that would somehow help Shiro understand why they were telling him this.

Another sighed and pinched his nose. "What he's trying to say is there's no way we were going to let those bastards get proper tanks from us." This one was younger than the others, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told Shiro he was more than old enough to call himself a soldier. "We sabotaged them. With a few tweaks, those things could go 'boom'."

Shiro's lips parted in surprise, his mind already spinning down that direction. "You think we could…?"

The five matching, savage grins he got in return gave him his answer.

"We know you said no revenge, but." Pain, raw and deep, crossed the man's face. "What these people are doing here…it's better if it never saw the light of day. Trust us."

Shiro looked into their eyes and could only nod.

 **OoO**

He assigned the six of them the task of blowing the tanks, because Shiro was the only one capable of getting them to the factory with any measure of success.

He ordered the others to wait for the signal before they started making their way to the forest and told them to head south once they were free of the base. They didn't question him, and Shiro could only hope, as he went with his group, that they actually waited for them to start destroying the tanks before making a break for it.

The six of them kept to the shadows, and Shiro felt the slightest bit of stiffness in his body unravel at having someone at his back. All these months he had felt so alone and removed from everyone else, even surrounded as he was. Having these men follow him, watching and protecting his blind spot was comforting, despite not even knowing their names.

The factory was silent as they stepped inside, and Shiro made his way to the second-floor mezzanine, glancing out of one of the large windows at the road leading to the front. Below him, the five men scurried about, prepping the tanks.

As the minutes ticked by, Shiro's fingers tapped against his thigh impatiently. So far, he had not heard any commotions that might suggest the released soldiers had been discovered, but that was doing little to calm his restlessness.

This entire mission had been going smoothly. Far too smoothly for him to not be suspicious. He couldn't help but think that any moment now, everything would go to hell.

"Cap!" One of the men called, his voice resounding even though he tried to be quiet.

Shiro turned away from the window and leaned over the railing. The men were huddled together just under him. Their satisfied expressions told him they were ready to go, though the thumbs-up was also helpful.

Shiro hopped over the handrail and landed in front of them, knees bending to absorb the impact like a cat. "Alright, good job. Let's get out of here."

They blinked at him, surprised, and Shiro could not really fault them. _He_ was still stunned by half of what he could do, and it was his body.

He led them back towards the door, steps just a touch faster than normal. The uneasy feeling in his gut grew.

It felt like there were eyes on him, scraping along his back, peeling the layers of his uniform away and seeing every thought that had ever darted through his mind.

It reminded him of –

Shiro jerked to a halt, feeling like a hand was suddenly wrapped tight around him. He only had a split second to grunt in confusion, before he was being wrenched fully into the air and thrown back into the warehouse.

He hit the ground at an angle, his shoulder taking the brunt of his weight as he rolled over and over and over; only coming to a stop when he connected with one of the tanks.

Shiro gasped, picking himself up gingerly from where he landed. He raised his head, shaking it to clear his vision.

"Cap!"

The call cut through the nausea, and Shiro's attention immediately turned to his team. They were still standing where they had been, gazing back at him in shock. The expressions on their faces quickly melted into fear, bone-crushing and all-consuming.

Shiro scrambled to his feet, his hands going to touch his shield as he spun to face whoever or whatever had attacked him.

Another wave hit him from the side, swatting him to the ground like a fly. The air was driven from his chest, and Shiro struggled under the invisible force.

He could vaguely make out the frantic shouts of the others, but Shiro flung a hand out to stop their approach. "Get out of here!" He shouted, forcing himself to his feet and sprinting.

A screech pierced the air, and Shiro skidded to a halt when a section of the mezzanine was literally ripped from the wall. He watched, eyes wide, as it was flung towards him. His mind was frozen, but his body reacted, leaping up and curling over the top of the metal as it rushed by him.

He landed on his feet, the mezzanine colliding with one of the tanks behind him.

The force of the explosion knocked him back to the ground.

Shiro's hands covered his head, his body curving into a small ball on the ground as the rest of the tanks followed like dominos.

The noise was horrendous, and beneath the flimsy material of his mask, Shiro swore he could feel blood trickling from his ears. Heat licked at his back, and he wondered if this was what it was like to be burned alive.

It took agonising minutes for the chaos to die down.

Shiro stayed rolled up for a long time after the last of the explosion had finished, the roar of fire the only thing ringing in his ears now. Slowly, he uncurled from his position, hissing low when his wounds flared in pain. He reached for his back, beyond thankful that he hadn't succeeded in removing his shield from its place. It'd likely protected him from the full power of the flames.

He picked himself up, getting to his knees and trying to catch his breath.

Around him, everything was red.

The flames were towering as they greedily ate at their surroundings. The thick smoke that choked the air made him cough roughly and his eyes water.

Shiro had never seen such destruction in person before.

 _You caused this,_ a voice rumbled in his head, accusing and vicious. _All of this. You did it._

He pushed himself to his feet, hunching over and cradling his stomach when the muscles twinged. Already he could feel his body patching itself back together. The fact that he was even able to move was a testament to how unbelievable his healing now was.

Shiro cast his eyes around, but he could see no sign of the others. He hoped that meant they'd managed to escape, and not that they were laying in pieces across the warehouse floor.

With a grimace he began to stumble his way back towards the door, dodging the ruins and flaming masses as best he could. He had to get out of here before anyone appeared to try and stop the fire.

By the time he had reached the exit, he was walking straight, and his gut no longer ached.

Shiro glanced around the warehouse, taking in the devastation one last time.

His eyes drifted up to what remained of the mezzanine, still in shock at what had occurred. He squinted through the flames, even his keen eyes straining from the sheer heat, trying to pick apart the shapes and understand what he was seeing.

The metal jutting out of the wall was twisted and broken for the most part, but there was one section untouched.

There, he spotted the woman from earlier. Haggar.

Despite the distance between them, Shiro somehow knew that she was watching him with fervour, eyes reflecting the fire around them. He shivered at the intensity of her, because the glint in her eyes was too knowing and too hungry; and something solidified in his mind.

Whatever had attacked him – that invisible force, that unbelievable display of power – he was absolutely positive that it had come from her. He knew it like he knew that the ocean was blue, or how he knew the exact curve to Keith's smile.

And it was that knowledge that allowed a small kernel of honest-to-God _fear_ to plant itself in his heart.

 **OoO**

Despite the early hour. Despite the long and arduous trip back to their own base. Despite the way his skin still felt blackened and bruised with wounds long-healed. Despite everything, Shiro could not deny that marching up to Iverson with the missing men of the 107th at his heels tasted a lot like victory.

Hearing the cry that went up – his title, his _name_ now, because he _was_ Captain America, as much as he was Takashi Shirogane – filled him with sweet satisfaction that was only second to the acknowledging nod Iverson gave him, a spark of approval and thanks in the man's stony eyes.

Shiro had saved them. He'd disobeyed a direct order, he'd stolen equipment, he'd risked his position in the army and his own freedom; but he had _saved them._ Whatever punishment they doled out, he would accept, because he'd go down knowing he had changed the lives of every single one of those men.

There was nothing Iverson, or anyone, could do to take that away from him.

 **OoO**

He wasn't demoted or shipped back to the States.

He was given a medal.

But it was the respect the other soldiers now looked at him with that Shiro treasured the most.

 **OoO**

Being on the front was both everything he'd predicted, and nothing at all like he had expected.

They could go weeks without a single moment of combat, then spend days bogged down under constant fire.

Mountain after mountain they climbed, the terrain rugged and difficult to navigate with their large numbers. But each time they beat back the enemy just a little more. They claimed land inch by inch, and the faces of the civilians they encountered were forever etched into his mind.

Shiro, more often than not, was smack in the middle of whatever attack was happening. His enhancements were a benefit he was finally able to put to proper use. He could tell when as assault was coming just by listening to their surroundings. He could pinpoint the locations of enemies just by looking closely enough, could identify the slight differences between camouflage and the rocks and the trees. He could even hear conversations between enemy soldiers if he really pushed himself.

His German improved, hand-in-hand with his Italian. His brain soaked in information at an alarming rate, and learning languages took him a matter of weeks, rather than the months or years it was for others.

He rose in rank, and his title became like a battle cry as he led the charge. He became a symbol, more so than he'd been already.

And it was hard, having to be Captain America constantly, never getting more than a few seconds to take the mask off and _breath._ There were only a handful of people that knew his real name, and Shiro knew he had to keep it that way if he wanted to stay and help his men.

He shouldered the burden silently, even though the reverent way some of the soldiers spoke about him had him cringing. They acted like he was superhuman, and not just because of his powers.

Sometimes, Shiro wished these people knew the real him. The one that used to trip down the stairs of his apartment when he was rushing to get to work. The one that snorted and choked on his water when someone told him a bad joke at the right moment.

The one that lov – _cared for_ his best friend so much he thought it was going to drown him at times.

But no.

Those things belonged to Takashi, to Shiro.

Not to Captain America.

So, on the rare occasions when he was allowed to be just Shiro, he tended to do the one thing that grounded him. He wrote to Keith.

It felt like an apology for going so long without a single letter between them. Shiro wrote and wrote and wrote, but never about the costumed adventures he went on. He kept the other updated on his whereabouts, but beyond that, he kept things light. He always ended them by asking about Keith, about his life and if he was alright.

It would take weeks for the letters to reach Keith, he knew that, and it'd be difficult for any replies to get out here; but Shiro took comfort from the fact that at least one of them knew what was happening to the other.

Keeping track of the days was trying as well, and Shiro almost missed October 23rd. He actually froze in the middle of a fight when he realised it was Keith's birthday, and caught a bullet in his leg as a result.

It was over an hour until he was able to get to a medic, and by then his leg had mended completely.

Advanced healing was a wonderful thing, except when his skin healed over something imbedded in his muscle. Shiro was not sure who was more sick, him, or the young medic that had to use forceps to keep his leg pried open as he dug around for the bullet.

That injury wasn't the first he'd had to endure, but it was what prompted a meeting with Colonel Iverson about his uniform; recalling Shiro back to another base away from the frontline.

 **OoO**

"Captain." Iverson greeted when he entered the barrack; returning the salute and waving at him to be at ease. Shiro meet the man's gaze evenly, curiously. Ever since his rescue of the 107th men, and his rather detailed report on his findings in the base – which Iverson had seemed particularly interested in – he and the colonel had been on rather good terms with each other.

"Colonel?"  
Iverson gestured off to the side, where Shiro spotted a man with light brown hair that bordered on red, and inquisitive eyes. He looked familiar, but Shiro was having trouble placing the man's face – something that rarely happened to him these days.

"This is Doctor Matthias Holt, one of our leading engineers in the war effort." Iverson returned his gaze to Shiro, and there was a pointed glint in his eyes. "He was present at your procedure."

And that would be why Shiro had only vaguely recognised him. His memories from the procedure were quite jumbled, since his body had still been adjusting to all the information his senses were intaking. Now that Iverson had told him, he did remember seeing Holt at some of the terminals before he was injected.

"'Present'? Colonel, why you completely understated my involvement." Holt bounced to his feet, moving with an energy Shiro found bemusing. The man – who could hardly be in his thirties – stepped right up to Shiro and beamed at him. "I worked with Trayling to complete the serum." He held out his hand. "I'm the guy who shot you with the vita-rays." He finished brightly.

Shiro shook the man's hand, and an awkward smile came to his face. "Right. I distinctly remember screaming through that."

Holt's happy expression faltered at his words. "Ah. Yes." The man shifted and cleared his throat. "Gave us quite the scare, but you asked us not to stop." His shoulders hunched just slightly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that."

Shiro shrugged, because there was nothing they could do about it now, and honestly, his mind was still caught on the fact that he had _asked_ for the procedure to continue. He'd been sure he had blacked out during that time, but perhaps his mind was simply blocking the memories.

"I've been able to do a lot of good, Doctor Holt. That procedure hasn't just helped me."

The grin reappeared, and Holt's confidence returned with startling speed. "That you have, captain. That you have."

Iverson stepped forward, "Now, gentlemen, I believe we are here for a reason." The colonel shot a look at Holt, which had the younger man clapping his hands sharply.

"Right you are, Colonel. Captain, if you'll come with me."

Holt lead them further into the building, steps light and buoyant as they twisted through numerous tables filled with bits and pieces of machinery. Shiro glanced around with fascination at what he now realised was a workshop. Iverson had said Holt was an engineer, but this was a bit more than he had anticipated.

They approached the back part of the barrack, sectioned off with a thick tarp. Shiro followed after the short doctor and Iverson, brushing the canvas aside and stepping into the next area.

When his eyes landed on what was laid out on the table, his breath caught in his throat.

It was a uniform. _His_ uniform. But after only a moment, Shiro could tell it was so much more than that.

The first noticeable difference was that this suit had protection. It was much thicker, and the colours that Shiro had always found obnoxiously bright were muted and less obvious, while still being recognisable. There were actual pockets as well, and straps, and compartments; and Shiro noted with particular interest the gun holsters.

It was less a costume, and more a suit of armour.

It was something a soldier would, could, and should wear.

"I take from the lack of verbal response, that you approve?" Holt asked, teasing, but soft. As if he understood what this moment symbolised.

Shiro breathed out harshly, eyes unable to move away from the magnificent sight. "It's perfect." He murmured.

His simple praise seemed to be enough for Holt, who chuckled and rounded the table. "It's made with carbon polymer. Should be bullet and knife resistant, so we can avoid any other incidents that require poor medics digging around your body."

Shiro carefully walked closer, absently pulling off one of his gloves – cotton, pathetic in comparison to this version – to run his fingers reverently along the thick material. "It's perfect." He repeated, firmer, with a touch of gratitude. This must have cost a pretty penny to make, and Shiro knew he was going to put the suit to good use. Being out there in a thin cotton outfit was just another thing he had to worry about on top of beating back threats to him and his men.

With this, he could do so much more without having to constantly fear for his safety.

"It gets better." Holt said, gleefully.

Shiro finally tore his eyes away from the suit, his tongue poised to ask just how Holt expected to beat this creation, when the man reached down and pulled up a circular disk about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. The red, white and blue of it matched his new outfit perfectly, and the white star emblazed in the centre mirrored that on his chest.

It was…it was beautiful.

Shiro was reaching for it without thought, and Holt handed it over easily.

"It's so light." Shiro whispered, shifting the shield between his hands and getting used to the weight. For something created entirely of metal, it made little sense that it could be as light as a feather.

"It's made of a rare metal." Holt informed him, "Called vibranium. I…came across some of it a few years ago. When the army requested me to make you a proper uniform, I knew this would be a brilliant use for it. It's completely vibration absorbent. Stronger than steel and a third its weight. Go ahead, hold it up."

Shiro did as asked, and almost jerked away in surprise when Holt suddenly brought up a gun and pointed it at him.

The man shot at him, and Shiro ducked his head behind the shield, hearing the _bang bang bang bang_ followed by softest _pings_ as the bullets littered the ground by his feet.

Shiro peeked over the edge of the shield to see Holt smiling enticingly at him, gun now aimed clearly at the ground. "And hardly a scratch." The man proclaimed. "Well, what do you think, gentlemen?"

Shiro and Iverson shared a look.

 **OoO**

The new uniform was a Godsend, and Shiro sent a letter wishing Keith a happy birthday.

He hadn't gotten a reply yet, but that was fine.

 **OoO**

It was exhausting, slowly pressing their advantage, and the heat was finally beginning to ebb as summer was drawing to a close.

They'd made such headway in the war, and since being gifted with his new uniform and shield, Shiro had found his effectiveness on the battlefield had increased dramatically.

It was like another barrier had been removed for him. One more restraint loosened.

He no longer had to take as many precautions as before. He was perfectly able to act as a battering ram for his men, protecting them and securing every foothold they needed to propel themselves further.

Some of his men called him reckless; others, courageous.

The voice in his head that resembled Keith's called him a fucking idiot.

Shiro just wanted to do his best.

His success rate improved, and with each victory, Shiro knew his notoriety with the enemy was spreading. He could hear them call his title in warning whenever they spotted him in the field.

Of course, his infamy came with a price. Shiro often found himself the main target in combat. The number of close-calls he'd had since officially joining the war as Captain America had grown ridiculously over time. It was like he was the most sought-after prize at a carnival shooting gallery.

But even in the middle of death and pain and suffering, Shiro began to feel comfortable with his new existence.

Naturally, that was when it all changed.

 **OoO**

He was distracted, his attention zeroed in on another man, trying to help him stand after a shock-wave knocked him to his back.

There was the whine of a plane, and a sharp whistle, and Shiro could do little more than brace himself as the ground next to him exploded in a hail of dirt. He hit the ground hard, his neck snapping back and connecting with the rubble.

His mask was reinforced, but not even that could prevent him from losing consciousness.

 **OoO**

Waking up was no gentle transition. It was like breaching water, sudden and rushing and disorientating. All at once, Shiro was assaulted with noises and smells and lights.

He jerked forward, breath tearing out of him as his eyes rolled desperately.

He tried to move, but his arms and legs were pinned, and there was a constant low static in his ears that echoed everywhere.

"What –" He coughed, throat tender and tasting faintly of iron.

Shiro dropped his head, his neck screeching in pain from trying to hold it up. His chin rested on his chest, giving him a full view of his suit. It was covered in soot and dirt, and more than a little blood. He could see the floor from where he was, and in some hazy part of his brain, Shiro realised he was strapped to a table, propped up like he was on display.

As the seconds ticked by, he felt the fatigue that was weighing him down begin to retreat, his mind kicking into overdrive. He thrashed against the holdings, muscles straining against the metal. He could hear them creaking, but they held fast.

Shiro slumped, body trembling from the effort.

He did not know where he was, but the chill under his skin told him exactly who had him. There was no way his own country would do something like this to him, not when he was so effective.

Which only left one other possibility.

His mind bucked at the thought, but his denial was short-lived.

He had never really thought about the consequences of being captured by the enemy. He knew his enhancements were as much a danger as they were a benefit, and that Shiro's worth to America – even though it had never been explicitly stated – was almost incalculable.

And he was painfully aware that if there was no hope of retrieving him, they would prefer _no one_ got their hands on him.

It was a sobering thought, but one he understood. Just because they'd had no success recreating the serum from his blood didn't mean that it was impossible.

Shiro had made such a dint against their enemies forces already, and he was only one man. If Germany, or any of their allies, managed to create their own version of his serum, and injected a whole _army…_

He couldn't – didn't want to – imagine what an entire legion of super soldiers might accomplish.

Shiro stayed there, trapped, for a long time. He tried again and again to break free, but even though his restraints didn't appear to be another more than regular metal and leather, he couldn't snap them.

It felt like hours had gone by, before he heard the lock in the door click.

Shiro raised his head, narrowing his eyes as the harsh light from the hallway spilled into the dark room. There was a someone there, silhouetted in the doorway.

The eyes that fell on him were far too familiar in their gravity, even though he had only had to endure their attention once.

Shiro froze.

"I apologise for my tardiness," the haunting voice croaked, "but so much of my attention these days is taken up by this silly war."

Haggar stepped into the room, the door closing behind her without a sound. Shiro swallowed thickly, unable to help the acute fear that bloomed inside him. He had thought in their last encounter that this woman was – unnatural. And even from a distance Shiro had felt small in comparison.

But being in a room with her, only a few feet separating them, with the full weight of her attention on him, Shiro felt like a mere speck.

Neither spoke, and Shiro found himself unable to hold her gaze for long. His eyes dropped away, and shame burned through him at his weakness.

"So, you are Trayling's final accomplishment." She stepped towards him, one hand raising and caressing the dirty star on his chest. "His greatest creation, the thing he rested all his remaining his hopes on." Her fingers shot up and dug into his chin, nails carving into his skin. "He believed you to be his salvation; that by altering your weak genes, he might succeed in saving his people."

She dragged his head closer, and Shiro hissed because he could feel the blood beginning to trickle down his jaw from where she cut him. "I believed Trayling a fool for his ideas. But I followed him here anyway. Imagine my surprise, when you all but waltzed into my lair." Her breath was freezing where it brushed over his face, and Shiro tried to yank away from her to no avail.

It made no sense. There was no way she should be strong enough to hold on to him.

"I allowed you to escape the first time. I wanted to see what you were capable of first, before I studied you myself. I wished to see how well Trayling's little experiment handled the change. If your body would break down over time, or perhaps if your mind would shatter, unable to process the influx of information."

Her grip loosened, and Shiro watched, disturbed, as she raised her bloodied fingers to her mouth and licked them. "Humans are so very fragile. But I was pleased to see continuous reports of your exploits cross my desk. I knew then that he had succeeded. The old fool actually succeeded in joining the two strands."

Shiro had no idea what she was talking about. Though it was obvious that she and Trayling had history. And it wasn't hard for him to remember her own talk of _experiments_ the first time he had laid eyes on her. She made it sound like her and Trayling were rivals, or something of that sort.

"Now, I had contented myself with the knowledge that I would have you eventually, and so I refrained from dredging up every secret surrounding you. I wanted to have something to occupy our time together with, after all." Haggar circled around him, and Shiro struggled to keep her in his sights once she rounded behind him.

"Let us start with your name, yes?"

Shiro stared at her with contempt, lips pressed together. If she thought he would tell her anything, she was sorely mistaken.

The grin Haggar gave him was filled with violent promises. "Stubborn." She said, though it was hardly a compliment. "But for how long?" Her hand raised once more, but instead of reaching for him, Shiro could only watch in disbelief as a vibrant purple glow appeared around the outstretched limb.

"What the hell?" He whispered, terrified for those few crucial moments.

"Don't be afraid to scream." Haggar spoke, but her mouth was not moving, and the voice seemed to come from inside him.

Shiro bared his teeth, but the second that purple energy connected with him, he shrieked like hooks were being buried into his skull.

* * *

 **Let me know your thoughts guys.**


End file.
